


Other Options, Other Endings

by dawnstruck



Series: Second Chances 'verse [8]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Alcohol Abuse, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, M/M, Minor Character Death, PTSD, Rough Sex, Shoddy politics, War, Xing, slowburn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-09 09:48:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11102025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnstruck/pseuds/dawnstruck
Summary: I have a spare room, he almost says but then catches himself. It is not his place. He and Fullmetal have never been on the best of terms. The offer would be seen as a meaningless courtesy at best, a coarse insult at worst.Not to mention that Fullmetal had faced down worse foes than the Terrible Twos. He would not take kindly to having Roy object to his plans.“Of course,” he says instead, quietly, achingly, and inclines his head in resigned agreement.Alternative scenario to Second Chances, Second Thoughts: What if Roy had not offered Ed to move in with him? (This is a canon divergence of my canon divergent fanfiction. Yes, I did that.)





	1. East City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whohoo! This is my 100th fic on AO3 within five years, and over a quarter of those were written within the past six months alone! What an anniversary and I am very happy to mark it with this fic that I have been working towards for a long time now. Which is a bit ironic, considering it dismantled everything I established in this 'verse so far. 
> 
> To new readers: Technically, this can work as a standalone as long as you have read the first chapter of Second Chances, Second Thoughts. However, it will make more sense (aka be more gut-wrenching) if you read this in relation to how things worked out in the original. There will also be references to OCs and plot points that might seem random if you don't know where they came from. However, you can also read this first and save the domestic fluff for later, whatever works for you. :)

_"This is the way you left me, I'm not pretending_

_No hope, no love, no glory, no happy ending_

_This is the way that we love, like it's forever_

_Then live the rest of our life but not together"_

[Mika ~ Happy Ending](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bJeHk1gDT68)

 

The afternoon passes in a blur. One moment, Roy is having tea with Gracia and Elysia, the next the Fullmetal Alchemist is standing at front of the door, his ginormous brother turned into a little baby.

Wasn't life supposed to be normal after the defeat of Dante and the homunculi? Though, Roy muses, perhaps Edward Elric truly attracted strangeness and struggle wherever he went.

Now it is late at night and they are seated at the edge of the bed in Gracia's guestroom, both of them failing to find a solution. Neither fighting nor strategizing will get them out of this dilemma and Roy finds himself at a loss. He could offer empty platitudes, but those were more likely to earn him a metal fist to the face.

“I think I'll stay in Central,” Edward murmurs to himself, unconsciously turning to hide his face against Al who's propped up over his shoulder now, “I got a lot of money saved up. We could get our own place and I could... I could start working at a lab, once... once Al's...”

Once Al's old enough, he probably means to say but cannot bring himself to do so.

It's a peculiar thought. Fullmetal raising his little brother who had almost always been taller than him, softer than him, more mature than him. If their roles had been reversed, Roy has no doubt, Alphonse would have carried out this new responsibility marvelously. But it is Edward and this version of the story is so much harder to imagine.

He'd grow into it, perhaps, though growing was obviously not one of his strong points. He'd take the challenge and make do. Edward Elric had always been a master at making a virtue out of necessity. He had turned amputations into automail and trauma into talent. He'd pull through.

On a deeper level, Roy knows that this is non-sense. Knows that this is not the way to raise a child, knows that Edward is still a child himself, knows it is his duty as a superior, as an adult, as a confidante to extend his help in whatever way needed.

I have a spare room, he almost says but then catches himself. It is not his place. He and Fullmetal have never been on the best of terms. The offer would be seen as a meaningless courtesy at best, a coarse insult at worst.

Not to mention that Fullmetal had faced down worse foes than the Terrible Twos. He would not take kindly to having Roy object to his plans.

“Of course,” he says instead, quietly, achingly, and inclines his head in resigned agreement.

 

The next morning, Gracia packs a bag of essentials but when Ed slings it over his shoulder she watches him anxiously.

“Will you be alright?” she asks, “You could just stay here for a couple of days. It really would be no trouble at all.”

“No no,” Ed shrugs, sending her an empty grin, “I just wanna get back to Riesembol for now. Sort myself out.”

“Of course,” she agrees and worries at her bottom lip. “Call me,” she adds when she hugs him goodbye, but over his shoulder she is looking at Roy, pain and confusion and this strange certain instinct that mothers seem to get about their loved ones.

They haven't told Elysia the truth about the baby's identity, and they haven't told Gracia the truth about Edward's destination. Otherwise, she would never let them go. She and Maes had always been fond of the Elrics, and Edward had always had a hard time accepting that.

When he and Roy leave, it's in silence. Roy is still in his uniform, rumpled though it may be. He had spent some hours at the office yesterday, despite the fact that it was a Sunday, cleaning up in the wake of Dante's demise and the mysterious disappearance of Führer Bradley. When he had called in this morning to excuse himself, Hawkeye had been displeased but taken his exhaustion at face value. The past few weeks had been hell on all of them. He deserved a break.

It's not a break, though.

They drop by the barracks so Edward can go and grab his meager belongings. Roy remains standing by the street corner as not to draw anyone's attention, but Fullmetal showing up with a newborn baby would raise even more unwanted questions.

Edward seems reluctant at having to hand Alphonse over, but in the end he does it anyway. Roy, halfway familiar with handling children due to being Elysia's godfather, feels reluctant as well. The tailend of Edward's braid disappears behind the corner and Roy is left with an unexpected burden in his arms.

Like this, Alphonse looks so terribly small and unassuming, a baby like any other when, in truth, he is so much more than that. Fullmetal's pain must be unimaginable.

After a few moments, Alphonse begins to wake up, previously rocked to sleep by his brother's slightly uneven gait. Now he opens cloudy eyes and blearily blinks up at Roy.

“Everything will be fine,” Roy tells him and wonders whether it is just one of the many lies he has told in his life.

On the cobblestone, the morning sunlight creeps across the toes of his boots.

Eventually, Ed returns, luggage in hand. Roy takes the suitcase, Ed takes the baby. They don't talk but it still feels like a significant exchange. The suitcase is lighter than expected, not lighter than Alphonse, but less profound.

Ed throws one last look over his shoulder, back at the barracks and Headquarters just behind it. Then he marches onward.

 

East City Station is relatively empty on this chilly Monday morning, but it is still easy to get lost in the crowd and the voices, easy to blend in.

Edward is holding Alphonse like a cross between an invaluable relic and a ticking bomb, and there are blue shadows underneath his eyes. Stuffed away in his wallet is a oneway ticket to Central.

“There are other options,” Roy tells him. He's not sure why he is backpedaling now, except for the fact that every step along the platform feels like a death sentence.

But Ed shakes his head. “There really aren't.”

“You aren't friendless.”

“I'm a fuck-up, though. At some point people ought to catch a break.”

“And you don't?”

A one-sided shrug.

“I never took you for a coward.”

Edward's answering grin is sharp and brittle like broken glass, “This is probably the bravest thing I've ever done.”

“Perhaps,” Roy agrees and lets out a slow breath. Beside them, the train blows out its steam.

This is the moment when he could prevent everything, change the course of time. This is the point of no return.

“So,” Ed squares his shoulders, “I got a train to catch.”

“I guess you do,” Roy says and keeps his hands in his pockets so they cannot reach out, cannot help Ed clamber into the train, cannot hold him back.

“Hey, bastard,” Ed says from the topmost stair. Like this, they are on eye-level and Roy feels a strange pang in his chest, nostalgia for a thing that will never be.

“Thanks, alright? For everything.”

Roy inclines his head, “It was a - not a pleasure, maybe – an honor to have worked with you, Fullmetal.”

Something shutters in Edward's gaze at the mention of his title. But then he just nods.

Roy turns away before the door closes. He tries not to wonder whether Ed watches him leave.

 

“Chief,” Breda bursts out on Thursday morning when he arrives in the office, hassled and out of breath, “What happened to the boss and Al?”

Roy's insides freeze, but he merely cocks a questioning eyebrow at Breda's inelegant entrance. “Lieutenant?” he asks pointedly.

“Sorry, sir,” Breda pulls himself up straight, makes a conscious effort to catch his bearings. Then he elaborates, “My buddy works in the barracks and he is responsible for the room assignments. It seems the Elrics have left the dorms. Permanently.”

By now he has gotten the others' attention as well and they are crowding around the threshold in obvious worry. Roy bites his tongue and makes a decision.

“Very well,” he says, setting his pen aside, “I reckon it's best to let you know.”

“Know what?” Fuery asks, nervously plucking at the hem of his sleeve, “Did something happen to the Elrics?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Roy admits, pauses. Takes the plunge. “They attempted human transmutation.”

A series of gasps, followed by a moment of silence which is finally broken by Havoc.

“So did it work?” he asks and his hand is twitching, moments away from reaching for a cigarette, “Are they alright?”

Carefully, Roy weighs his options.

“They are alive,” is what he says at last, “And that is all that matters. I have released Fullmetal from his contract.”

“Then where are they now?” Breda asks and it's like a switch has been flipped, relief and smiling faces. “We need to celebrate.”

“The Elrics have already left East City,” Roy says and this at least is not a lie.

“Oh, yeah,” Havoc nods in understanding, “They probably want to go to Riesembol first. But they'll come back to visit, right?”

“That will be within Fullmetal's prerogative,” Roy points out and that, too, is taken at face-value. They know of Edward's impulses and spontaneous decisions. And they know he deserves a break. While they were all working towards Roy's advancement through the ranks, they had always rooted for the Elrics in a more open, enthusiastic manner. They had all hoped for a happy ending. Roy will give them at least this much.

Later, when everything has calmed down once more, Riza is the only one who stays behind and she watches Roy with steady searching eyes.

“I trust you, sir,” is what she finally says and Roy can only lower his head in shame and vague gratitude.

 

Saturday comes and then it has almost been a week since disaster struck.

For a short moment, Roy had considered canceling his date with Viola, but then decided against it. A little bit of fun would be sure to take his mind of things. Life, after all, goes on, just as it always does.

It doesn't quite work at that. They watch a movie, about a former soldier meeting a former lover, about difficult choices and lost chances. It's a good movie, perhaps a bit cheesy at times, but Roy cannot keep his mind from wandering.

“Did you even pay any attention to the movie at all?” Viola asks when they are leaving the cinema together and he barely even remembered to offer her his arm.

“Pardon?” he asks and blinks at her.

She cocks an eyebrow, “You've been distracted all evening.”

“Ah,” Roy says, chagrined, “My apologies. I've had a turbulent week.”

“Want to talk about it?”

He opens his mouth, pauses, closes it again. Shakes his head no.

She shrugs, “Suit yourself.”

They do not go on another date.

 

And yet, Roy's prediction is not too far off. Routine returns, slowly and painstakingly, and eventually even the investigations regarding Roy's involvement in Bradley's disappearance grind to a halt, no evidence found that can truly be held against him.

It might have set back his next promotion by a couple of months, too many of the upper brass still leery of him, but he is confident that he'll be able to make up for it.

Life, it turns out, is very quiet when you don't have to save the world. Quieter still when there is no one barging through your office door, their coattails swishing important documents off your desk.

Roy reads papers and signs papers and writes papers, and his formerly singed fingertips turn perpetually blue with ink.

He teaches himself new inventive ways of giving evasive answers and his team learns not to ask questions.

 

One day, Gracia comes into the office. Her hair is bleached yellow by the summer sun and there are freckles dusted across her nose. She does not close the door behind herself and Roy misses his chance to ask her.

“Winry called me today,” she begins without even the pretense of niceties, “She says she hasn't heard from Edward and Alphonse in weeks. They never made it to Riesembol.”

Her gaze is accusing. Roy lowers his to his desk. Behind her, in the outer office, the rest of the team is listening. Even Hawkeye's fingers have stilled upon the typewriter.

“You _knew,_ ” Gracia says, “You knew he was never going to go back. And you just let him?”

He doesn't defend himself. His sweaty fingertips press blue prints onto starched paper, like a criminal upon his capture.

“They are children, Roy,” Gracia reminds him. The anger in her voice should hurt, but her disappointment is even worse. “And Al is- What were you thinking?”

“It was not my decision to make,” Roy tries to convince her of what he is still struggling to accept himself, “Fullmetal thought it best-”

“He was in shock! He had no idea what he was getting himself into. Have you even heard from him since he left?”

“He made it clear that he would prefer a clean cut. It wasn't my place-”

“It wasn't your place to recruit him into the military!” she snaps, “It wasn't your place to overthrow the government! It wasn't your place to abandon those boys after Maes fucking died for them!”

There are a grand total of three times Roy has heard Gracia swear before. Two of these time she had been drunk; the third, Maes had just proposed to her and she had been crying tears of joy.

“I am sorry,” Roy says.

“A sorry excuse for a friend, perhaps,” Gracia says. Her blue summer dress twirls prettily when she turns away.

 

His team asks questions. Roy answers them all.

Unlike Gracia, they do not yell at him, but it's easily just as bad.

 

In autumn, his neighbor's cat Guinevere has a litter of kittens.

“There's a little calico still left over,” Miss Kinnet tells him, “She would make a good companion.”

“I'm afraid I'm not home often enough to take care of someone other than me,” Roy laughs easily, “She deserves something better.”

Most nights his dinners are liquid anyway and he does not think that qualifies as a proper diet for anyone, human, feline, or otherwise.

He knows Maes had been thinking about getting a cat for Elysia, but he does not dare direct Miss Kinnet to Gracia. And Alphonse, he remembers vaguely, Alphonse had always wanted a kitten.

I promise, Edward had told him once,conviction and compromise, When you are back in your real body. I promise.

Do they have a cat now, Roy wonders idly and goes home to pour himself a drink.

 

It's winter already when Miss Rockbell finally comes to see him. Her long blond hair is in a sensible up-do and she looks older than Roy remembers her, older than her seventeen years should allow for, but maybe that is just the frown around the corners of her mouth.

“Gracia wouldn't really tell me anything, except for the fact that they are alive,” she says, her voice somewhere between hard and wavering, “She told me I should go to you instead.”

This time, the office door is closed. Roy wipes a palm over the lower half of his face.

“They are alive,” he agrees and then walks her backward through the misery.

 

They breed them tough in Riesembol, maybe like willows, maybe like oaks. Any child raised by Doctor Rockbell must spit in the face of adversity.

Find them, Miss Rockbell had said primly, Unless you want a new witness to speak out in regards to the abduction of the Führer, you ought to find them.

So the next time Roy is on call in Central, he had Madame Christmas put out her feelers. And then he goes to see Edward.

He finds him living in a dingy apartment down by the docks, just like Roy had predicted back then, the main room sparsely furnished, the windows drafty.

Alphonse is half a year old now, bigger and chubbier, moss-green eyes curiously looking Roy up and down where he stands across from Edward.

Edward looks like he always does, except he doesn't. He's cut his hair short, probably because this way it is less of a hassle. Al's tiny hand still keeps tearing at his bangs. Ed just endures. His face is paler than winter can account for and he seems to have lost weight. He's always been short but now he looks like a war orphan. Roy would know; he'd created enough of them already.

“How are you?” Roy asks.

Ed glowers at him, tired, the answer brutally obvious.

Roy bites the inside of his cheek. “Have you found friends yet?”

At this, Edward looks downright offended. “Do I look like I have the time?” he growls.

“You already know people here,” Roy points out, “The librarian – what was her name? Shezka? Or Armstrong.”

Alex and his subordinates had always had a soft spot for the Elrics. Pretty much anyone who had ever spent a significant amount of time around them eventually developed a soft spot for the Elrics. Roy was no exception.

But Ed just turns away.

“Why are you here?” he demands instead.

“To look after you,” Roy says and adds, “Miss Rockbell asked me to.”

Ed stiffens, “Does she-?”

“Know? Yes. Gracia told her some. I was forced to tell her the rest.”

“You bastard!” Ed twirls around. His eyes are livid. Vaguely, Roy wonders whether Alphonse will be picking up a lot of swear words this time around. “You had no right!”

“I had no choice,” he objects, “Miss Rockbell threatened to expose my involvent in the Bradley case and-”

“Do you ever bother to think about anyone but yourself?” Edward snaps, his voice raising, “If you only-”

He breaks off, has to, a nasty cough catching him off guard and making him twist his face away from Al. Roy thinks that will be it, but Ed's entire body trembles as he tries to hold his breath, his face turning red.

Quickly, Roy steps over to the sink. The tap water looks somewhat murky, but Roy fills a glass anyway and hands it over to Ed who downs it with huge gulps. When he can breathe again, his eyes are closed.

“You should leave,” he tells Roy and, in that way, it is just another on a long list of unsatisfactory partings.

 

“Do you have children?” General Lockheed asks Roy at the mind-numbingly boring New Year's celebration.

“Unfortunately no,” Roy replies, making sure to look appropriately regretful.

“You should,” Lockheed tells him, “You really should. Children are what's good in this world.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Roy tells him with a bland smile, “This military has made me burn children alive.”

The look Lockheed gives him is more scandalized than horrified. Roy downs his drink in a silent toast to another awful year.

 

Time passes. Roy has been promoted to Brigadier General, but it does little to alleviate the feeling of stagnation in his chest. He fingers the medals that adorn his uniform, thinks of Maes in his cold grave, and wonders whether it comes with the rank.

He has made it this far and, unlike Maes, he didn't even have to die for it. But, also unlike Maes, there is still something vital missing, something that is like an unspoken requirement for a man of his caliber.

Somewhere along the way, between Maes' funeral and her finding out about Ed's desertion, he has fallen out of touch with Gracia. It's unfair of him maybe, immature even, but he cannot decide whether his presence in her and Elysia's life would be welcome anymore so he just stays away. It does not cut the memory of Maes from his heart, but he tells himself it makes things a little easier.

Hawkeye, who after the war had struck up a friendship with Gracia, learns to no longer give Roy little updates on their lives as it continues without him. He spends a lot of time in the office nowadays, tries to get his work done, even as his concentration frays like paper tissues. She neither praises nor scolds him, just watches him with almost unnerving calm, like waiting to see whether the family dog really caught the rabies, whether he needs to be put down.

But an old dog does not learn new tricks, so Roy does what he has always done, muddles through and sidesteps rivals and slowly inches his way toward the top.

Settling down would be a good move. Finding a wife, someone with a good pedigree, someone with looks and class and just the right amount of cleverness. Someone who can keep up with him without ever getting too close.

Roy has his eyes on the führership and Evelyn Hepburn has her eyes on him.

She knows what she wants, knew it back when Ephraim Fairchild tried courting her and she caught Roy's gaze across the room instead.

She's an ambitious woman, but patient, too. When Roy first invites her to the opera she is pleased but not surprised, even if he made her wait a long time.

She's a good conversationalist and keeps him on his toes, making him watch his every move. In a way it's exciting but when he fucks her for the first time it feels like he brought a cobra into his bed. She does not bite him, but rakes her nails down his back, and he cannot even tell whether she is just faking her orgasm.

She stays the night, drapes her dark hair over his white pillows, puts her perfume into his sheets, his nose, his memory.

He does not ask her to leave.

 

Riza doesn't like her, but never says anything, just lowers her gaze in an almost demure fashion.

“She's a real looker,” Jean nods to himself, scratching the back of his neck, “Ah, a real lady.”

Roy does not bother to comment, to question his own motives. He reminds himself that he only started dating Evelyn with the intent to put a ring on it, to make things official, to find someone who would be able to bear the title and responsibilities of First Lady of Amestris. And yet, he never does.

One year in and it turns out that Evelyn isn't so patient after all.

“This is going nowhere,” she complains when they are facing off in the hallway of his house and he still hasn't asked her to move in with him, “You either marry me or I'm out.”

“Why the hurry,” Roy asks, etching a debonair smile onto his face, “Why the urgency?”

“I'm not getting any younger, Roy,” she points out, scoffs, “I can't just be your eternal arm candy. I want a husband. I want children.”

Children. Roy finds himself wincing at the mere thought, cannot imagine himself as a father. He's never had one after all, and he is certain he would make a terrible one.

“So,” Evelyn demands with her hands on her hips.

Roy inclines his head and steps aside, clearing the way to the door. “I hope you'll find happiness,” he tells her and means it.

For a moment, she actually seems caught off guard that he would surrender so easily. Then she just shakes her head at him.

“I doubt you ever will,” she mutters as she passes him, out of his house and out of his life.

Quite so, Roy agrees silently and closes the door behind her.

The perfume fades rather quickly, but the bitterness stays.

 

When Roy doesn't work, he drinks. When he doesn't drink, he sleeps. When he sleeps, he dreams of gunfire and flames in the desert, wakes gasping in the dark solitude of his house, and doesn't even resist the urge to drink some more.

So he works like a maniac, goes to the office early, leaves when all the lights have already been turned off. Doesn't leave at all, some nights.

There's a half-empty bottle of whiskey in his uppermost drawer and he doesn't quite know how it got there; but there is also a fading photograph of him and Maes from their time at the academy, and maybe that is all the explanation he needs.

One bleary morning, when he is just waking from his stupor, face buried in his folded arms on the desk, Havoc happens to show up at the office earlier than usual. The team has started doing that, at least one of them almost always around, as though he needed a babysitter. They used to joke about that before but, now that it seems truer than ever, there is not a lot of joking going on anymore. Roy wonders why they are even still with him.

“Chief,” Havoc nudges him now, a pitying expression on his face. “You really miss her that much, huh?”

Roy looks at him in confusion and it takes him a moment to realize that Havoc is talking about Evelyn, as though his descent had been caused by a broken heart. He opens his mouth to protest, sits up a little jerkily, his elbow clinking the empty tumbler against the equally empty bottle. There are imprints of his lips of both of them.

That's when he knows that something has to change.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please yell at me in the comments!


	2. Central City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You'll be the death of me,” he murmurs in resignation and then reels Edward in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guuuuuyyyysss, you are the best! I can't believe there are still so many people reading and commenting after all this time. I thought, no one but me would really be interested in this installment and yet here you are. Thank you so much for sticking around. I promise I'll make it worth your time. <3

Roy puts in a request for transfer to Central Command and, when it is granted, Havoc and Hawkeye go with him. The rest of the team does not. Roy does not fault them.

“We'll hold the line here, chief,” Breda promises good-naturedly and Roy knows he'll still have a comrade in him but probably never again an unconditional friend.

He finds a furnished apartment for himself instead of yet another empty house and settles in as best as he can without actually spending much time at home. There's a lot of work to be done, a lot of reputation to correct. He cannot be a drunkard here, a flirt or an airhead. He may have erred, may have strayed from his path a little, but now he ought to make up for lost time.

And yet... there is still some puzzle piece missing, an old ghost he needs to banish before he can move on to a fresh start, one he tries to ignore with all of his might. Sometimes a flurry of red cloth on the street will make him turn his head; sometimes it's the clatter of metal or the cry of a child.

After some months, he finally dares to get back in touch with Gracia. Their conversations on the phone are stilted, more polite than friendly, but the distance does them well. They talk about Elysia and little else, Roy offers to send them some money, Gracia refuses.

“It's not us who need your support,” she says and doesn't have to clarify.

He meets Alex, too, who looks at him with baleful eyes until Roy has to sigh and turn his face away.

“Who told you?” he asks and Alex's broad shoulders shudder like a mountain in an earthquake.

“I am still in contact with Pinako Rockbell,” he reveals, “Last year, she wrote me a letter, explaining everything she heard from Winry.”

It's like that first transmutation all over again. Both Roy and Edward had insisted that it ought to be kept a secret, but more and more people kept finding out about it. The risk of letting anyone earn your trust.

“You resent me,” Roy says. The cups of tea sitting between them on the table have not grown cold yet, but it's a close thing.

“The war hasn't made me think less of you,” Alex says, “This won't either. And I trust you know how to learn from mistakes.”

He takes a sip of tea and, after a beat, Roy does the same.

 

Finding Ed is easier than last time, over three years ago, because it turns out that he and Al are still living in the same rundown building, the same shady neighborhood, as though there were no point in trying for something nicer.

Ed's funds, the money he has saved up during his time as a state alchemist must have run dry by now, no matter how good he was at budgeting. But surely, he would have found a new job? Surely, he wasn't still wallowing in self-pity?

There is only one way to find out. Roy knocks on the alchemy-enforced door and waits for it to open. When it does, he finds himself looking down at a small blond boy who must undoubtedly be Alphonse Elric.

“Who are you?” Al asks because he, of course, does not recognize Roy.

“My name is Roy Mustang,” he says, grateful that he chose to leave his uniform and therefore his rank at home, “I am here to see- Edward.”

He stumbles over the name, hasn't used it in too long and, even before everything went downhill, he had generally preferred to call his subordinate by his title. Outside of work, Roy had always called his team by their given names, but somehow that it had never occurred to do the same with Edward. It was a means to make the boy look more grown up in his eyes, he knows, to justify sending him off to face unknown dangers.

“Are you brother's friend?” Alphonse asks guilelessly, and Roy falters.

Something like that, he wants to say but can't. We used to be, but that would be even less true.

“Not quite,” he says instead, “Is he home?”

“Yes,” Al nods and then toddles back into the room, leaving the door wide open with the carefree trust of a child, “Brother!”

So Roy wipes his soles on the grimy doormat and follows him inside. The room is not big, though, and so the first thing he really sees is Edward sitting by a table in the small kitchenette. His nose is buried in a book and something about that has a certain kind of warmth burst in Roy's chest.

The moment, however, is short-lived.

“What the fuck,” Ed says when he lifts his head and his eyes zero in on Roy.

Fullmetal is twenty-one now. His hair is still cropped short, his face still strangely haggard. His automail does no longer bear the signature elegance of the Rockbells, replaced by a cheaper alternative, and Roy can do the math on what that means.

He gives a smirk, bleak in its empty arrogance. “Now, now, Fullmetal,” he says, “Is this a way to greet your former benefactor?”

“Screw you,” Ed growls, slamming the book shut, “Why are you showing up here all of a sudden?”

“Just a courtesy call,” Roy claims, “I've been transferred to Central, so I thought I might as well see how you are doing.”

Al has clambered up onto the only other chair, so Roy is left standing in the middle of the room. And he may not be wearing his uniform, but with his casually straight-backed poise and starched collar he still sticks out like a sore thumb.

“Well, you saw me,” Ed huffs, cuts off to cough into his fist, “So you might as well leave again.”

It's just like last time, Roy thinks with mild panic. His halfhearted attempt at reaching out is met with vehement resistance. This time, though, Roy has a trump card up his sleeve.

“Too bad,” he hums in feigned non-nonchalance, “Because I just got off the phone with Gracia. She was quite talkative today.”

Ed freezes, obviously understanding the implications of that. Then he throws a sidelong glance at Alphonse who's giving a small yawn.

“Bedtime?” Ed asks and Roy knows he has won.

 

It's not like there is much to tell, really. But Ed must be starved for information on his loved ones, even if he is the one depriving himself.

“She is doing quite well in Rush Valley,” Roy relays what Gracia told him about Miss Rockbell, “She seems to be dating an old friend of yours.”

“Wha-” Ed's mouth falls open, flabbergasted, “Who?”

“Paninya, I believe,” Roy says and watches Ed's face for signs that he is mourning lost love. Instead, Edward only seems to be caught off guard.

“Huh,” he says eventually, “Yeah, I guess I can see that. Good for them.”

“You should tell them that personally,” Roy points out and immediately knows that he went too far.

“Easy for you to say, bastard,” Ed hisses.

“I understand you must be scared,” Roy says, “But if anyone knows about Miss Rockbell's bottomless forgiveness, it's me.”

Ed stills. His fists clench.  
“It's more than that,” he says, “I've... I've waited for too long and- and what I did is...”

He trails off, the words too heavy for his tongue, even after they must have weighed down his mind for years. And finally, finally Roy understands that it was never truly about Miss Rockbell and her grandmother, about the Elrics' various friends and companions, or even about young Alphonse himself. Instead, it was all about Edward and his crushing inability to absolve himself of his crimes.

Between his mother and Nina Tucker and Maes and Scar there had been a lot of people Edward hadn't been able to save, failures he had always felt responsible for. Yet it was Alphonse's fate for which he fully shouldered the blame. In his eyes, there was no sugar-coating it, no bargaining. Even if Alphonse had agreed to participating in both attempts at human transmutation, Edward saw himself as the cause, the catalyst, the common factor.

Edward didn't want redemption. He wanted repentance.

In Ishval, they would tattoo sin on his face. Here, he has scars and automail and Al's water color drawings on the fridge.

Roy inhales, looks for words, can't think of any. The breath stagnates in his chest. His fingers twitch.

“Here,” he says eventually, drawing closer the newspaper page that tonight's fish must have been wrapped up in. There is a pencil stump lying next to Edward's book and he grabs that at well, scribbles something into the gray margins.

“This is my new address,” he explains, “And my phone number for the office.”

Ed just gives him a bleak look. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

“If you ever need... anything,” Roy tells him, “Don't hesitate to ask.”

It's too late, of course. He should have offered earlier, should have offered years ago.

“Whatever,” Ed says, a one-sided shrug that is all metal, “You know where the door is.”

“Very well,” Roy says, pushing his chair back and standing up. The legs scratch across the uneven floorboards. He drops the pencil back onto the table, raps his knuckles against the wood. He shouldn't feel this naked, this vulnerable without his gloves.

For a moment, he hesitates. Then, instead of making for the door, he rounds the table and offers Edward his left hand.

Ed stares at it as though it were a foreign object, inconceivable in these quaint confines of this room. Does he think of their fateful parting, back when he had gone off to face Dante while Roy went after King Bradley? That brief farewell when neither of them had been sure whether they would all make it alive. And later, Roy just barely avoiding Archer's bullets, Edward clawing his way out of what he had claimed was the path to another world.

They had been equals then, but still not quite on eye level. Maybe that was all they would ever be capable of.

Ed is still just staring at the proffered hand and Roy is starting to feel indignant now, not disappointed, indignant because once more Edward's immaturity is getting the better of him and-

But then Ed extends his hand, work-rough and calloused as it is, and firmly grasps Roy's own.

The touch itself is not electrifying as such. But the look Edward gives him is.

“I just don't get you, Mustang,” he mutters, sounding frustrated, “Why can't you just be an asshole?”

“Oh, I am,” Roy quips, “But mostly on Tuesdays.”

Ed's look turns incredulous.

“You shit,” he says, “You utter shit.”

His fingers spasm around Roy's hand, almost painfully. Roy clenches back. Equals in a fight, even in this.

Maybe Edward thinks the same because he gives a cocky little grin. Some of that old spark must still be in him then and, unbidden, Roy's gaze drops down to his lips. Lingers. Stays.

Ed's eye twitches. Roy comes to his senses, beats down the errand little thought. Yet when he tries to pull back his hand, Edward won't let him.

“Fullmetal-,” he warns in a tone that is neither blunt nor sharp. On edge, perhaps.

“Don't call me that,” Edward growls, “I'm not a dog of the military anymore. You don't get to order me around.”

“Because you were so well known for following orders.”

“Perhaps you didn't train me well enough,” Ed points out, “Perhaps you should've been stricter.”

Roy swallows. “Perhaps I didn't want an obedient lapdog.”

“Then what do you want?”

It should be an easy thing to walk away. To pull back his hand, step out the door and just leave, once and for all. But Edward's eyes are on him and his touch is, too, and Roy has always known himself to be a weak man at his core.

“You'll be the death of me,” he murmurs in resignation and then reels Edward in.

So they clash, they fuck. It's an ugly little thing.

Edward presses his face into the crook of his arm, bites his own flesh to keep from moaning too loudly, Alphonse asleep in the tiny bedroom next-door. It's obvious that it's not first time he has done this, though probably the first he has done it with someone he once knew.

Roy doesn't think he has ever been this angry when fucking someone. And angry he is, at Ed, at himself, at this night, this moment, the past messed up years, at the future for looking entirely too bleak, at all the missed chances that had gone by.

It's not the best sex he's ever had, but not the worst either. In general, he tends to stay away from men, just to be on the safe side. So it's been a while for him and, in retrospect, he thinks he might have hurt Ed, even if Ed himself would probably rather swallow a mouthful of nails than admit it.

They do it standing up, still mostly clothed, with Ed braced against the kitchen counter, and absurdly Roy finds himself thinking of fast food and takeout diners, stale coffee and white bread included. Ed should be Cretan wine, though, smoked salmon and fresh herbs. He should be indulged in, not choked down.

Ed gives a cut-off groan and comes.

After, Roy tries to talk. But Ed just blocks him off.

“Listen,” he says, running his flesh hand through his short hair. “Listen,” again, as though he was mostly forcing himself back on track, “Let's just forget it, alright?”

“Of course,” Roy's agrees. They are both old enough to deal with this like adults. They'll forget it.

 

Roy does not forget it.

Roy worries at the memory as though it were a tooth gap in his mouth, tender and vaguely bleeding. Aware of the glaring absence yet wondering whether anything new would grow in its place.

“How was your weekend, chief?” Havoc asks on Monday morning and Roy ducks his head and mutters something unintelligible into his coffee.

“You are distracted,” Hawkeye notes later and Roy pulls his paperwork closer.

They don't know, of course. They don't know where Edward lives, that Roy has been in contact with him. They don't know that Edward bites more than he kisses but that he still kisses exceptionally well.

And Hawkeye looks at him as though she at least knows he is hiding something but she does not comment. She is reliable in that way, the most powerful player on the board, the last vestige of his former glory, the cornerstone of his future one.

But if Roy's old team had been chess pieces, the Elrics had always been a pair of dice. As soon as they were out of your hands, there were thirty-six possible outcomes. Each toss was a game of chance, each game a gamble.

A simple game, in its essence, but ever so much more risky. And, most of all, addictive.

 

Next time. Of course there is a next time because last time was so jarring they cannot help but want to try and make it better, to prove the other wrong about something.

And Roy didn't strictly have to spend two hours meandering around on the fish market that evening, but it was a nice day and the seagulls were calling, white wings and yellow eyes. Eventually, his listless tenacity pays off.

“What the- Are you stalking me?” Edward says. He's standing by one of the stands and Al is hanging off his left arm, but his gaze is fixed on Roy.

“It's a nice evening for a walk,” Roy says with a congenial smile.

“You live on the other side of town.”

“A long walk,” Roy agrees but then something else occurs to him, “You kept my address?”

“I happened to look at the paper as I was _throwing it away_.”

“Good thing you have eidetic memory then,” he notes and throws a look at Alphonse who is hungrily eyeing the fishmonger's display, “How about I buy you some soused herring?”

“Yes,” Alphonse says before Edward can say no. If there was one predictable thing about the Elrics, it was their bottomless stomachs.

So they wander along the market together, Edward making his purchases, all of them getting their fingers sticky as they stuff the slippery herrings into their mouths, half of Al's face soon covered in oil, Roy offering a handkerchief to wipe it off.

“So,” Ed says, stuffing the kerchief into his coat pocket, “How's the Führer thing going?”

It's an awkward attempt at small talk but also a peace offering. With a chagrined expression, Roy tilts his head to the side.

“Could be better,” he admits.

“How's that?”

“I would be more popular if I got myself a wife.”

“Huh,” Ed glances towards the dark river, “I always kinda figured you and Hawkeye were a thing.”

“No,” Roy says, “She's too professional for that.”

“Unlike you.”

I fucked my former subordinate, Roy thinks but what he says instead is, “Unlike me.”

“You're still doing it, though?” Ed continues, “Aiming for the top?”

“Of course,” Roy agrees easily, “Slow and steady wins the race.”

“Yeah, no, it really doesn't.”

“And you?” Roy asks in turn, “Where do you work?”

Ed jerks his chin toward the immediate horizon, beyond the docks and warehouses, where clouds of steam and smoke rise up from the jungle of chimneys reaching heavenwards.

“In the factories,” he says, “The safety measures aren't the best, so I make sure the idiots don't accidentally kill themselves. General repairs, maintenance, that sort of stuff.” He shrugs, careless, “It pays okay.”

Roy doesn't say anything, doesn't know what to say without it being cause for offense.

The Fullmetal Alchemist, who had passed the state exam at barely twelve years old, had served as a colonel in the military for four years, who had saved the entire nation from utter mayhem and destruction... was working as what was essentially a janitor.

A small selfish part of Roy had always hoped that, after he had helped Ed in his quest for the Red Stone, Ed would remain within the ranks and further Roy's rise to the top. Of course, Ed had never made a secret out of the fact that he would quit as soon as Al was returned to his rightful body, and yet the thought had been there. It wasn't even so much Fullmetal's strength and genius that Roy would have liked as an asset but Edward's fierce loyalty and integrity.

Not an obedient dog, Roy thinks again, but a steadfast companion nevertheless.

Before long, they are back in Edward's street and then standing in front of Edward's building as he unlocks the door.

Roy folds his hands behind his back.

“Perhaps it got lost in all the... excitement of our last encounter,” he says stoutly, nervous fingers circling his own wrist, “But I just want to reiterate my offer that if you ever need anything, anything at all really, I would be more than willing-”

“Mustang,” Ed sighs, rolls his eyes before staring at a spot somewhere behind Roy's shoulder, “You wanna come up for a coffee?”

Roy does.

 

Somewhere along the way it becomes a habit, worse than Havoc's cigarettes, but not quite as bad as Roy's drinking.

They never meet anywhere but in Ed's home and only at night. Sometimes, Al will still be awake and Roy will watch as Ed gets him ready for bed, never quite knowing what to make of it, a polite intruder in their poor little home.

One evening, when Al is still wide awake and complaining about having to sleep already while Ed is cleaning the clutter around the room, he just clambers up to sit on Roy's knee.

“Al,” Ed warns, a rag in his hand to wipe down the kitchen table.

“It's alright,” Roy says, steadying the weight of the boy with one only slightly awkward hand, “I don't mind.”

It looks like Ed himself might mind, but he does not say anything else, just keeps a careful eye on them as he continues to clean, coughing into the crook of his elbow every now and then.

“Brother said you are a state alchemist,” Alphonse says. For a four-year-old, he speaks remarkably well.

“I am,” Roy confirms.

“What kind of alchemy do you do?” Al wants to know, “Brother said almost everyone but him has a specialty.”

“I do flame alchemy. It's quite complicated, if I dare say so myself.”

“What kind of array do you use?”

“Why don't you have a look yourself,” Roy offers, shuffling a little to pull one of his gloves from his pocket. There is something terribly wrong about seeing a little child inspecting the intricate embroidery, but Roy forces himself not to flinch.

And Alphonse cannot possibly understand all of it, but he must know the salamander at least, the signs for air and fire, and he inspects it with curious eyes and fingers.

“What's the biggest fire you have ever made?” he asks then and Roy very much does not think of Ishval, just stills for a moment as he contemplates his answer.

“I made a rather impressive one in a sparring match against your brother, once,” he recalls, uncertain whether Ed had ever told Al about his previous involvement with the military.

“Who won?”

“Your brother,” Roy admits, watching as childish pride and awe light up in Al's eyes, before he adds, “Though it was close.”

“I wiped the floor with you,” Ed claims from the side.

“You really did not,” Roy retorts with pursed lips, “It was rather evenly matched.”

Ed huffs. For the first time, he looks slightly reminiscent.

“I always kinda wanted to go again,” he muses, “I still think you cheated back then.”

“Having a backup plan is not the same as cheating,” Roy points out. Throughout all his life, he has always had a backup plan. For a while now, however, he has felt that he is just barely winging it.

Later that evening, he fucks Ed on the freshly wiped-down surface of the kitchen table, the wooden legs dangerously creaking underneath them.

They always have little time to bask in the afterglow. Al seems to have a healthy sleep, but there is always the risk of him unexpectedly coming out of the bedroom. So Roy sorts out his clothes and sinks back down on his chair, while Ed lingers a little, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling.

“Which time is this?” he wonders aloud and Roy doesn't have to ask what he means.

“The sixth,” he says because he has obsessively replayed every single encounter in his head over the past couple of weeks.

“Huh,” Ed says, sinking back down on the hard table.

“Why do you ask?”

“Nothing. Just...,” Ed gives a vague shake of his head, “You are now officially my longest affair ever.”

And perhaps Roy should feel flattered at those words but there is only the bitter knowledge that either Edward had never bothered to let anyone get close enough to stick around, or no one had seen fit to bother with him.

Who had those others been, he cannot help wonder. Colleagues from the factory, hard men working at the docks? Other boys from the neighborhood or the occasional sailor? A father or teacher from Alphonse's daycare? Had Ed ever been anyone's dirty little secret? Was he Roy's now?

Roy hadn't told anyone that he was semi-regularly meeting with Edward. He certainly didn't tell them he was fucking him.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks instead because he knows better than to overstay his welcome.”

“Nah,” Ed says, unaffected, “You give good head.

 

He's sitting in Madame's bar, all polished dark wood and liquor bottles. Madame is clad in a velvet dress, twirling her cigarette holder between her fingers, drawing whimsical shapes into the air.

The smoke reminds Roy of Havoc who doesn't tell him about his failed conquests anymore and her self-assured pose of Hawkeye who always watches him too closely. Roy tries not to dwell on it.

Madame sets a tumbler of whiskey down in front of him. He drags his eyes away from the rich amber and how it gleams in the low light.

“Just water, thanks.”

She gives him a long hard look. Then, without a word, she takes the whiskey away again and returns with a glass of water. Ironically, Roy clutches his fingers around it like a lifeline.

For a moment, they sit in silence.

“What's eating you, Roy Boy?” she asks at length, “You haven't even looked at the girls tonight.”

“The girls are beautiful and stunning, as always,” Roy smiles emptily, “Just like you.”

“Ah,” she nods, “A boy then.”

Fool be he who tried to hide things from his mother who also technically ran an undercover spy agency.

“So first you bury your head in work, now you bury your cock in ass,” she snorts, “Is he the cause or a symptom of your misery?”

“Both,” Roy says, “Neither, perhaps. It's complicated.”

“Your affairs were never complicated,” she knows, “A matter of the heart?”

Roy stills.

The idea, in itself, is preposterous. It's lust, certainly, and guilt and regret and anger and... a lot of feelings that make everything seem more illicit than it actually is.

“Don't say I didn't warn you,” Madame says and Roy's water does little to ease the tremble in his fingers.

 

Sometimes they don't see each other for weeks, but it's never more than a month. Sometimes it's Roy who fucks Ed, sometimes it's the other way around. Sometimes they linger, indulging in a strange sort of pillow talk, rarely touching, never cuddling. It's almost nice this way, almost comfortable. Roy has gotten used to it too quickly but his warning bells do not ring loudly enough for him to flee the burning building.

“Do you ever wonder how things could have been different?” Ed asks.

Roy blinks an eye open. There is a storm outside and he does not want to leave.

“Different how?” he asks.

“Everything,” Ed says vaguely, a tiny shake of his head, “Everything.”

“I like to play a game,” Roy says, “It's called 'It could be worse'.”

“Sounds like a shitty game.”

“It is,” Roy agrees, “But it usually cheers me up a little.”

“How does it work?”

“You think of something you dislike in your life, and then consider how it might have turned out even worse.”

“Yup, still sounds shitty.”

“It's pretty easy. For example, 'I was orphaned at a young age but at least my aunt treated me well'. See? It's important to always look at the bright sides.”

“My former C.O. is a stupid old bastard,” Ed supplies, “But at least he's good in the sack.”

“Wonderful,” Roy applauds, “You're getting the hang of it already.”

“My little brother got turned into a baby,” Ed continues, “But at least he's still a great kid.”

“That he is.”

“I fucked up real bad but... at least I'm still alive.” Ed has rolled onto his side now and his giving Roy a searching look, “Is that... Does that count?”

“It does,” Roy nods, “It does.”

“Sometimes... it doesn't feel like it,” Ed admits and perhaps it is the most honest they have ever been with each other.

“There is something Hughes used to tell me, back in Ishval,” Roy remembers, “'It's alright to cry when night is falling but... we should still hold out for sunrise.'”

A moment of silence passes between them. Then-

“Do you blame me?” Ed asks, “For his death, I mean?”

“No,” Roy replies, without hesitation, “And he wouldn't have either. Often, I... blame myself, but logically I know that even that isn't right. He simply knew too much and was trying to do the right thing. In truth, it was Dante and the homunculi.”

“Yeah, I guess. Doesn't make it easier, though.”

“It doesn't,” Roy agrees. He is well aware of the tears caught in Edward's voice but he does not know how to react to them. Roy had never been good at comforting people and Edward has never been the easiest to comfort, now more than ever.

So he waits and listens for Ed's breathing to even out again. Only that doesn't quite happen. Ed sniffs, once, twice, inhales deeply as though to shake off the awkwardness of the moment, but that only aggravates his lungs again.

A second later he has already jackknifed off the table, his shoulders and chest jumping as he hacks out a cough. It takes a while until he has calmed down again, though his breath is still labored and wheezing.

Roy watches him.

“Your cough has gotten worse,” he notes, only for Ed to wave a dismissive hand.

“Just the chemicals at the factories,” he claims as though that weren't even worse.

“Alphonse is coughing as well.”

“He's imitating me. Smokers' kids do that, too.”

“Maybe it's the chimneys,” Roy muses, “The air here is unpleasant.”

“What do you want me to do, transmute the whole damn atmosphere?”

“Could you?”

Ed stills, mouth open.

“I dunno,” he shrugs, “Maybe. Whatever.”

So much potential just lost to circumstance. In another life, Edward might have been one of the great ones and yet Roy hates himself a little for thinking of the boy as someone defined by abilities and usefulness.

Technically, Ed has no official references beside 'alchemy genius'. He only went to a backwater village school until he was ten, went through rather unorthodox training under Izumi Curtis, and aced the state alchemist exam when he was twelve. That last bit should still be enough to get him a scholarship at least, but it was obvious enough that Edward did not consider a university education a valid choice for himself.

“But the things you could do it you only dedicated yourself to it,” Roy urges him, “Just think of the possibilities. You could revolutionize-”

“Just stop, okay?” Ed cuts him off. He is sitting heavily braced against the table, as though this entire conversation were paining him. “I'm not gonna do anything like that. I got- all this knowledge in my head, and nothing good has ever come of it. I'm not touching it again.”

There is more to it than just that, some truth that Edward obviously does not want to share with Roy.

He can respect that, though. They are not a couple, not romantically involved. Their sexual encounters are always brief and only meant as stress-relief. He doesn't even know whether Edward is possibly seeing someone else on the side. Personally, he had always found two-timing to be in poor taste, but perhaps Edward thought differently.

So they are not exactly fine the way they are. But they simply are. And, sometimes, that is all a beggar can ask for.

 

Talking to Edward is always a little bit like walking across a minefield. There is no telling which topic will set him off, which word will sent him into a rage for whatever reason or alternatively make him clam up.

That is Roy's private life, but on the job things aren't exactly any rosier.

The tensions between Drachma and Xing have been rising again, bear and tiger baring their teeth at each other, with Amestris' opportunistic chimera watching from a safe distance. If negotiations remained futile, there would be clashes soon, and everyone knew it.

Führer Hakuro, though he had done a passable job at patching the country back together after Bradley's disappearance, is poorly suited for the task at hand. Foreign policies are not his strong suit and, with each official letter he sends to Tsar Andrej II and Emperor Ling Yao, he only seems to fan the flames. You've got to snuff it out, Roy knows, but is not high enough in the ranks to just blurt out his opinion like that. Patience, though, patience.

“Met a girl in the park,” Havoc says during his break. He's got his handgun dismantled on the table in front of him, cleaning the barrel. He's been doing that a lot lately, often after reading the delicately phrased headlines in the newspaper. He's smoking, too, but nobody tells him that he should not be doing that in the office.

“We've been on four dates so far,” Havoc continues, his fingers stained with gun oil, “Nothing steady yet, but who knows, y'know? Who knows? Awful bad timing for a war, is all I'm saying. Can't keep a dame waiting like that. Mighty rude that'd be.”

And Roy wants to tell him that there won't be another war, not while any of them are still on active duty. But he cannot know for certain. And he does not want to lie to the last of his loyals, not again.

He leans back in his chair a little, stares down at the third drawer of his desk. The drawer has a false bottom under which hides a key which in turn unlocks the top drawer in which he stores a bottle of cheap brandy. Not his most elaborate scheme, certainly, barely enough to keep him for trying to get his hands on it some days, and right now just a little mouthful would do wonders for his fraying nerves, so perhaps-

“Sir,” Hawkeye says. She's standing in front of his desk, her back ramrod straight. Her hand is not on her gun but it might as well be.

“Lieutenant Colonel,” he acknowledges, forcing his gaze away from the temptation of the drawer.

“General Fairey wants to see you,” she tells him.

“Did she say whe-”

“Right away, sir,” she cuts him off. Her gaze is not necessarily stern, but unrelenting nevertheless.

“Very well,” Roy says with a faint smile, pushing his chair back. “I trust you to man the office, Colonel.”

“Of course, Major General,” she agrees.

“Go smoke outside, Jean,” Roy can hear her say as the door closes behind him and he takes a moment to fix his jacket, button it up properly.

“Hell,” Havoc says when he joins him, wiping his hands on an already dirty rag, “Ain't like she ain't obsessively cleaning her own rifles at home. She just got a better lid on her crazy.”

Crazy, Roy thinks. All of them crazy and scared and sad and angry and too tired to have history repeating itself.

“If worst comes to worst,” Roy tells him, “I'll see to it that you can remain stationed here. Take care of your new girl. Just invite me to the wedding.”

“Hell,” Jean repeats, but this time it's with a lopsided grin, “For that I'll even name our firstborn after you.”

“Roy Havoc,” Roy grins back, “I like the sound of that.”

Perhaps he'll have have his legacy yet.

 

When they see each other next, Ed's eyes zero in on his chest.

“Oh,” he says, “Is that new?”

Roy does a little bounce on his heels, hands folded behind his back.

“Lieutenant General,” he announces with a hint of pride. Not the youngest in history, perhaps, but it's still a decent achievement at his age.

“Huh,” Ed says and steps back to let him in.

He keeps his uniform on as he fucks Ed across the kitchen table, imagines what it might have been like to fuck Ed on the desk in his office instead. Not while Ed was still his subordinate, no, but later maybe, officially released from his contract, returning to the East for a visit or a conference, grown a little taller, dressed a little more sedately. They would have sniped at each other like old times, and flirted, not so much like old times. Ed's cheeks would have reddened, and Roy's gaze would have grown thoughtful, and perhaps they could have had dinner that week, a mutually beneficial night of fun, until Ed was on his way again, rolling stone that he was.

“Elections are coming up soon,” Ed points out, after. He doesn't seem to be reading the newspaper much, except for the funnies his fish comes wrapped in, though his sudden interest comes as a bit of a surprise. Then again, with the current climate, people were talking a lot about their options in regard to the next Führer President. “You gonna campaign?”

“I haven't gained enough traction yet,” Roy explains, “And no one can campaign before making General. That's still one promotion away.”

“Huh,” Ed says, face tilted toward the window, though his thoughts must be on the dangers looming at the horizon, “People are just making the same mistakes over and over again, aren't they? Isn't that one definition of madness?”

Crazy, Roy thinks again.

“Jean's got a girlfriend,” he says instead, just to lighten the mood. For once, it works and Ed perks up.

“No way,” he says, “How long have they been going out?”

“Fifth date tonight, I believe,” Roy chuckles, “He must be thinking of proposing soon.”

“Madness,” Ed laughs, though it transitions into something more of a cough again, “Absolute madness.”

 

One day, Ed shows up at his door. He's never been here before, even though it has been months since Roy first told him his address. Alphonse is holding his hand, looking up at Roy with large, curious eyes.

“I have to take an extra shift tonight,” Ed says. He does not explain whether there is simply a shortage of workers or whether he needs the money that badly.

“Yes?” Roy says, wondering what that has to do with him.

Ed's shoulders draw up, obviously pained at having to spell it out for him.

“Can you watch him?” he asks, jerking his head toward Al.

In another life, one were Roy would have been a proper godfather to Elysia, he would feel somewhat more confident about handling children. Here, he does not.

But he offered his help and now he cannot backtrack.

“Of course,” he says and steps aside to let them in. Ed does not enter.

“Listen,” he tells his little brother, crouching down in front of him, “I'll be back in a couple of hours. You'll stay with Mustang and behave, alright?”

“Alright,” Al says.

He's a good kid, an even better kid when put under Roy's care. He sits at the living-room table, pulling crayons and a coloring book from his little backpack, obviously intent on entertaining himself as quietly as possible.

Roy knows there is an elderly neighbor who takes care of him sometimes, blind as a mole and equally as exiting. He wonders how often Alphonse must be spending his days like this while Ed is off working.

“Is that a rhino?” Roy asks, curiously peering over the little boy's shoulder. The creature on the paper is great and gray and with a fearsome horn.

“Yes,” Al nods, “Brother took me to the zoo last year. Everyone seemed to like the elephants better but I liked the rhinos. Brother liked the lions and the hyenas. He didn't like the sloth, though.”

“No,” Roy muses, “I reckon he wouldn't. … Would you like to go to the zoo again? I hear they have penguins now.”

“I would,” Al says, “But brother... is busy a lot.”

Al seems a little forlorn sometimes, a little too mature. Had he been like this the first time around as well or was it the result of the specific set of circumstances of his second childhood? Roy knows he had been smart, smarter even than Edward had been, in some ways, and that certainly hadn't changed.

Before Izumi had come along, the Elrics must have taught themselves the basics of alchemy. This time, Edward was Al's teacher, even if he couldn't be there for him all the time.

Roy opens his mouth, hesitates but just for a moment.

“Would you like me to read you some of my alchemy books?” he asks and Alphonse's eyes are like stars.

 

When Roy wakes, it is to the sound of someone knocking on the door. He doesn't quite startle, just grunts, takes a moment to orient himself, to understand that he had fallen asleep in his armchair and that Alphonse is sitting propped up against his chest.

Careful to not rouse the boy, Roy stands up and makes his way into the hallway. When he opens the door, Edward is staring at him in the half-dark.

“Shit, shit, sorry, it got late,” he apologizes when he realizes that Alphonse is fast asleep, “I didn't think it'd- I'll get him out of your hair now and-”

“Edward,” Roy says quietly, “Just come in.”

So Edward does. Slips out of his shoes and his coat, follows Roy back into the living-room where the reading light is still on.

“You read to him,” Ed realizes when he sees the different books strewn all over, “You didn't have to.”

“I wanted to,” Roy says, gentle settling Alphonse on the couch and drawing a blanket over him. It's a little presumptuous of him, perhaps, but the late night has made him daring. When he turns around again, he is standing directly in front of Edward. “My bedroom is at the end of the hallway.”

They've never done that before, had sex in an actual bed, and the offer feels almost dangerous.

“I,” Ed says, wringing his hands, “I need a shower.”

“You can do that tomorrow,” Roy tells him, “For now, you need sleep.”

The grandfather clock on the window sill says it's three in the morning. And Roy has to be at the office in only a couple of hours, but for now this is more important.

When he kisses Ed, he smells of sweat and smoke and chemicals. He smells like a boy who grew up too quickly, like a young man who works too hard. But Ed sighs into the kiss and lets himself be taken by the hand, lets himself be drawn into the bedroom, kissed some more against the closed door, lets his shirt be brushed off his shoulders and his belt pulled from its loops.

They don't have sex that night but, for a while, Roy lies awake and just watches Edward sleep.

 

It's spring again and, one tentatively sunny day, Roy realizes that their affair has already dragged on for the better part of two years. Ed is twenty-three now but has lived three times the life of people twice his age.

They know things about each other now, even if they don't talk all that much about their lives outside of their encounters. Roy knows the names of Ed's colleagues, and Ed knows that Roy likes to drop by the little café down on Park Street to buy pecan pie and sometimes muffins for him and Alphonse. Roy knows about Al's kindergarten projects and that he still loves cats. He knows Ed will let him cut his hair if it gets too long again and that he'll keep some leftovers if Roy comes over directly after work.

It's not messy as such, but not exactly clean-cut in the way they should have aimed for from the beginning. Perhaps they should have seen it coming from the start.

With familiarity come feelings. And with feelings comes worry.

Edward who had just recovered from the flu is already coughing his lungs up again after a day spent at the factories. The good weather also meant less rain, less wind, and the air in the neighborhood was even less breathable than usual.

“You should move into a different area,” Roy says when Ed is no longer choking, “They're refurbishing the buildings on Barkley. I hear the apartments aren't all that expensive.”

Ed frowns at him from under his fringe, “I have an apartment.”

“Something nicer, though,” Roy points out encouragingly, “Somewhere where Al can play outside.”

Something ugly twists its way onto Edward's face then and it's like a switch has been flipped.

“Why do you care so much?!” he snaps, “You're not his father!”

Roy jerks back at the sudden harshness. For some reason, those words hurt more than he expected.

Ed had always had a difficult relationship with father figures. He had rejected Hohenheim, had kept Maes at arm's length, and he had taken Roy to bed.

“You're not his father,” Ed repeats, softer now that he must have realized his outburst was out of line, “And I... I ain't either.”

Roy purses his lips, stares down at his boots. “Will you tell him the whole truth someday?”

“I don't know,” Ed shrugs helplessly, “I don't know. ...Does that make me a bad person?”

“It makes you human.”

When he walks home later that night, though, he mulls over what Edward had said.

No, Roy wasn't Al's father, didn't even know him well enough to register as anything but some sort of estranged uncle who brought him chocolate and the occasional toy. And, frankly, he doesn't want to be more. He doesn't want the responsibility and the dedication. He doesn't want the fear for the future and the loss of independence.

He does want what best, though, for both of them. And he has long since realized that that is not him.

 

It's not long after that, that his secretary forwards a call to him in his office.

“A Miss Winry Rockbell calling from Riesembol,” she explains, new on the job and unfamiliar with the ghosts from Roy's past, “She says it's a personal call.”

“Thank you, Miss Schweizer,” Roy tells her and and waits for her to close the door before he accepts the call.

“Miss Rockbell,” he greets, “It's been a while.”

A good six years since she had come to his old office at East Headquarters and demanded answers. And answers he had given her but not exactly the ones she had hoped for.

“Let's not do this,” she tells him plainly. Her tone is not necessarily cold, but not cordial either. She has no patience for pleasantries and Roy is thankful for it.

“Of course,” he says, “I assume you are calling because of Edward.”

Perhaps him using his name instead of his title is already a dead giveaway. Perhaps it doesn't matter.

“Look,” Miss Rockbell says and takes a shuddering breath, “I know you are in contact with him. I talked to Gracia, and Colonel Armstrong mentioned something similar to Granny, and- I just know Ed, alright?”

Roy neither agrees nor objects and she doesn't press him.

“I respect you not breaching his confidence,” she continues instead, “But if you could at least pass on a message for me?”

“...What is it?”

“Izumi Curtis,” she says, “Ed and Al's mentor, if you remember her. She just passed away yesterday. The funeral will be held on Friday. In Dublith.”

Roy purses his lips, “I can't make any promises, Miss Rockbell.”

“I know,” she replies, “Thank you, Lieutenant General.”

 

That evening, Edward takes the news with a stony face.

“Yeah,” he says, “Yeah, she was sick for a long time. I should've...” He trails off, clenches his automails fist. “But it's not like I can just show up at her funeral. Winry will be there and... and Sig and Maison will be... Fuck. Fuck, fuck, dammit.” His shoulders quiver, his head lowers. “I hadn't talked to her in years. Al never even knew her. I fucked up everything.”

“Funerals are painful,” Roy knows and remembers Maes, “But they also make it easier to say goodbye. You should go.”

“I know. I know. You think I don't know, I-” Ed hugs his arms around himself, as though to contain the grief, “The last funeral I went to ended with me promising Al that we'd bring mom back.”

That's how the cruel part of their story had started. Perhaps this was how it would end.

“You don't always have to be strong, Edward,” Roy says and places as a tentative hand on his knee, “Not even for yourself.”

They kiss. They fuck. It feels like a goodbye.

Ed wraps his legs around Roy and pulls him in close. His red mouth keens toward the ceiling like a young bird and Roy kisses him, brushes strands of hair from his damp forehead. It's a strange kind of intimacy to seek solace in sex, one that almost says more than pouring out your heart to each other. Ed arches into each touch like a man drowning and desperate while Roy barely keeps his head above water. Neither had ever truly known how to swim and it had made their match all the poorer.

They do not lounge around afterwards, just get dressed and shuffle on the spot. Ed bends over the sink, throws a handful of water into his face, stalls.

“There's a telephone at the end of the hallway,” Roy reminds him from where he is bent over tying his shoes. Edward throws him a stormy look.

“I- Shit, I know, alright? Just let me-” He takes a deep breath, as though trying to suck courage into his lungs. Then he moves toward the door, his steps clunky for reasons that have little to do with his automail.

And Roy does not exactly eavesdrop but, from his place in the kitchen, he can still hear Edward's voice, asking to be connected to Rockbell Automail in Riesembol, his metal fingers nervously clicking out a rhythm against the phone.

“Hey, Win,” he says eventually, his tongue shyly curling around her name, “It's me.”

Roy does not wait any longer then. He puts on his coat, smooths down his hair and his facade, and makes for the door. He no longer needs to act as a mediator between Ed and the outside world. His work here is done.

And, just like that, their affair is over.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, who was expecting that? Because I kinda wasn't. Originally, I only planned for Roy and Ed to have sex, like, twice maybe, but they just can't keep their hands off each other, it seems.
> 
> And what will happen in the final chapter? Will they get their happy ending? Let me know what to think! :D


	3. Taiyang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He never thought that fate would somehow manage to throw them back together, though even now Roy finds himself with Ed not by his side but at the fringes of what he may touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 aka After this many installments I am running out of military vessels to name my OCs after. 
> 
> No one guessed correctly what the final bit will bring which means I'll be able to surprise you still. :D  
> Also, chapter was actually finished way before the second so I hope there won't be any major inconsistencies. Please let me know if there are things that don't really add up. Other than that, enjoy!

Roy hasn't quite made it to General yet when Claus Messerschmitt is elected Führer President. There are worse men for the job, there definitely have been worse ones before, but Messerschmitt is part of the old guard, certainly not stupid and not exactly belligerent but still thinking that sometimes war is the only option.

He believes in Amestris in a way that is too heartfelt, bordering on naivety. He believes in guts and glory and has little patience for diplomacy. Roy smells the smoke before the fire has even been lit.

“Mustang,” General Armstrong growls after the announcement of the election, emerging from the shadows like a snow leopard from the ice, “I was counting on you.”

Roy cocks an eyebrow, “Counting on me for what?”

“Preventing this absolute disaster,” she says, “That hot-headed idiot is going to antagonize Drachma more quickly than he can trim his nostril hair.”

“And how is any of that my fault?” Roy asks, casually folding his hands behind his back to hide how they are shaking.

“Don't play coy,” she tells him, “My brother was always very vocal in his support of you. Many were expecting you to make Führer.”

“I am young,” Roy smiles, “There is still time.”

“There might not be,” she counters, “Not if all that muscle flexing between Drachma and Xing comes to a head start.”

“In that scenario, may I be so bold as to expect your cooperation?” he asks, even as she turns away, the cascade of her gold-spun hair recklessly tossed over her shoulder. Absurdly, Roy finds himself reminded of Ed, full of spite and stubbornness and nevertheless hoping against hope that the man called Mustang was more than just another cog in the system.

“I hold the borders,” she says, “Against threats from all sides.”

Roy doesn't quite know what to make of that, but since she did not run him through with her saber he will count this not as a victory but at least as a truce.

 

Amestrians are leery of the cunning Xingese, but they loathe the Drachmans even more. Not to mention that Xing offers many opportunities for trade, spices and fabrics and other expensive goods. The choice is easily made.

In early spring of 1925 **,** Führer President Messerschmitt signs a contract that allies the Amestrian forces to those of the Xingese emperor, joining him in his war effort against Drachma.

Once more, state alchemists are called to the front and Roy can taste sand and ashes on his tongue.

His own panic that arises alongside his memories, however, is cut short by another sobering realization, namely the one that the Fullmetal Alchemist never properly completed the paperwork for his resignation. On a technicality, he is forced to reenlist.

“Fuck that!” he rants, reminiscent of the olden days as he paces through Roy's office, as though this were not their first meeting since they had broken off their ill-advised liaison two years ago, “I'm not doing this! I have Al to take care of!”

“If he were your son, they would have to accept that,” Roy agrees, “But he is not.”

“I can't go to _war_ ,” Ed moans, “I can't- I'm not a soldier, I never was, I can't kill any more people-”

Something bitter threatens to rise in Roy's throat, the vile reminder that Edward had been made to take lives before he was even considered a legal adult. Now he is little more than that, but will still be expected to do it all over again, just because some higher-ups demanded it of him.

Roy thinks of red flames arching towards the sky, of red blood splattered against a wall, of a red stone glinting in the palm of his sullied hand.

“I have issued a request for you to be reinstated under my command,” he says, “To the best of my abilities, I will protect you.”

Ed just sends him a glare.

“ _Protect_ ,” he snarls, “It's war. How the hell would you protect me?”

“I have been assigned to the personal guard of the Xingese emperor,” Roy tells him, “You will accompany me. The capital will be much safer than the front lines.”

“People still fucking die,” Ed knows and Roy has no reason to disagree.

 

On grounds of previous remarkable service, Edward is promoted to Colonel while Roy finally makes it to General. It's a cheap victory.

Once upon a time, the sight of Edward in uniform would have greatly amused him, but now that, too, is an old daydream turned into a sour disappointment. Around them, the station is a teaming sea of Amestrian blue while soldiers are bustling around, workers loading cargo into the trains, families bidding their loved ones farewell.

Madame is not a friend of tearful goodbyes and has thus already taken her leave, so Roy merely stands off to the side as Edward is finally forced to part from Alphonse.

The war has not yet reached Amestrian soil, but Al might just be the first of many children to be sent to the countryside for their protection. Miss Rockbell has come to pick him up to take him along to Riesembol, to the place he had forgotten to call his home. Her hands are on his shoulders and it's difficult to tell which of the two needs the support more.

“You gotta take care of each other,” Ed tells them as though he weren't the one going off to risk his life, “Granny, too. And if anything happens, get the hell out of dodge.”

“Well,” Winry smiles shakily, “You know how war is. Lots of amputees and lots of commissions for automail. I certainly won't get bored.”

She's lost loved ones in the war before. She seems to think that this time will be no exception.

“And I'll help, too,” Al claims, “Granny promised to teach me about medicine and surgery. I wanna learn everything from her.”

“As long as you don't pick up smoking,” Ed grumbles unhappily, but musters a smile anyway.

Somewhere down the platform a whistle blows and Roy checks his pocket watch. He catches Edward's eye. They both know it's time.

“Alright,” Ed says, uncomfortably rubbing his palms, “We've got a train to catch.”

Winry squares her shoulders.

“If you damage your automail,” she says, “I will beat you black and blue with my wrench.”

It's worded like a threat, but there is a promise somewhere in there, too, and hope for a speedy reunion.

They hug each other, though they both step back rather quickly, as though each second heightened the risk of them never letting go again. Then Ed turns toward Alphonse.

“Whatever happens,” Ed tells him seriously, “Don't do anything stupid.”

Maybe he is talking about climbing trees or chasing chickens in Riesembol. Maybe he is talking about human transmutation. It's hard to tell.

But Al just gives a solemn nod.

“I promise,” he says and then throws his arms around Ed's neck, pulling him down into a fierce hug.

The boy is already nine years old, nine years since the clusterfuck of their lives had gone down the drain, and Roy cannot believe that, when Ed had scarcely been older, he had deemed him fit to join the military. What makes everything even more eerie is the fact that Al's voice is the same as when he had still been caught in his armor, as though – in one way or the other – history was always just repeating itself.

Another whistle sounds and it is time.

“Fullmetal,” Roy urges, one foot already on the steps of the wagon.

“Yeah,” Ed says, reluctantly extricating himself from Alphonse's embrace, but Roy turns away so he does not have to watch those terrible last moments, instead expecting Fullmetal to follow him as he marches toward their compartment.

A minute later, the train is moving, rolling down the tracks toward the East. Roy sits down on one of the poorly cushioned benches and looks out of the window, wondering whether this will be the last time he sees Central.

The door opens again and, when he looks up, Ed is standing in the threshold. His gaze is turned inward but, when his eyes turn toward Roy and find him already looking back, he gives a tight nod. Roy returns it and scoots over to give him room to sit.

Once upon a time, he had welcomed Ed at a train station. Once upon a time, he had bid him farewell. This time, they leave together.

 

There is no direct connection to Xing. The train goes as far east as possible and then they have to cross the desert in the throes of summer. It's tedious travel and a poor start to an already less than glorious campaign.

Roy's former team, once meticulously put together over the course of years, has been split up at the hands of paper-pushers who think loyalty is bought with medals instead of paid for with blood.

Breda is still in East City as he had promised when Roy first transferred. Falman and Fuery have been sent South to keep things at bay at the Aerugon border. Hawkeye and Havoc remain in Central, assigned to the personal guard of Führer Messerschmitt, capable as they are with their guns, and Roy trusts in them to keep him informed on all inside workings of the machine.

Armstrong is up North under the command of his sister. It's the farthest from the desert as possible, but it is yet another war and Roy is not there to see his old friend break into new pieces. To Alex, fighting had always been a thing of honor and aesthetics. The front lines were not for him.

All Roy has left is Fullmetal and he is poor company at the best of times. There is a lot of history between them but not the kind that makes things strictly comfortable.

They also have the rest of their new team to consider.

There is First Lieutenant Anselm Blenheim who mostly scowls and never smiles and who keeps his knife sharp enough to meticulously trim his salt-and-pepper beard once a week. Second Lieutenant Odoyo Blackburn, a dark-skinned woman whose mother was born in the lands beyond Creta, tall enough to dwarf everyone else in the group. Sergeant Major Anais Dornier, daughter of General Adelaide Dornier, eager to please and only twenty-three years old, the same age Roy had been during his first deployment.

They are a mismatched group and not in the way that Roy expects to be working well together. Blemheim's attitude does not encourage anyone to make friends with him, Blackburn is naturally reticent, Edward wants to pick a fight with the rest of the world, and Roy does not have the mind for smalltalk.

Dornier is caught in between, obviously trying to adhere to her military manners but also with nervous energy buzzing underneath her skin.

“Permission to speak, Colonel Elric,” she addresses Ed formally and he looks at her in askance before waving a careless hand.

“Permission to never talk to me like that ever again,” he tells her and Roy watches in faint amusement as she immediately blanches. Luckily, Ed seems to correctly interpret her reaction.

“I meant you don't have to do any of that boot-licking crap around me,” he hurries to calm her, “Just call me Ed, alright? I'm not that much older than you.”

Dornier regains her posture and chances a glance at Roy who only gives a small nod. Out of all of them, she and Ed were the only ones who really had family to miss; it would do them well to grow closer.

So Dornier relaxes a little, stands at ease, only to nervously fiddle with her fingers.

“I was... very excited when I saw that we were assigned under General Mustang's command,” she tells him and he cocks an eyebrow at her.

“Yeah?” he scoffs, “Because, let me tell you, I served under him for five years and it was the absolute worst.”

Dornier's eyes widen, but Blackburn smiles and Roy smiles and Ed smiles a little as well, and that is enough to calm her again, to show her that it is all in good humor.

“No, I meant... I was excited that I was assigned with you. Together,” she explains, her cheeks growing a bit red, “I used to collect newspaper clippings about your former missions. And I don't know anything about alchemy, but your were so young and already a Colonel and that greatly inspired me.”

Who would have thought, Roy thinks, The Fullmetal Alchemist used to have fan girls. Only that he had never been overly proud of his career in the first place. Accordingly, Ed abrupty closes off at her words.

“I never wanted to join,” he tells her, not pulling his punches, “Not now and not then. The military is the surest way to get you killed and you're gonna learn it soon enough.”

Her face falls again but this time, when she glances around, no one is smiling. All of them have been to war, all of them have seen battles. Anais Dornier had never known anything but peace. But Edward was right. She would learn soon enough.

Roy learns things, too. He learns that, true to his title, Fullmetal sports Rockbell automail again, constantly complaining about desert sand in the joints. He learns that Edward's nasty cough - which sometimes had seemed all too reminiscent of Izumi Curtis' ailment – must have faded away after he finally quit his job at the factories, that he is back to his full strength and health. He learns that Edward, for all his ease to slide back into their former work dynamic, does not see it necessary to acknowledge their unfortunate little affair with even a single word.

Roy learns that this hurts more than he'd like to admit.

 

When they finally reach it, Taiyang, the capital of Xing, is still pleasantly untouched by the war, at least on the surface. As soon as one takes a closer look, the pinched expressions on people's faces become more apparent, the armored guards walking around in pairs.

Ling Yao, upon coming to greet their party, has forgone the formal dress that must be appropriate for his station, instead choosing to clad himself in a wide shirt and lose pants.

“Much less restricting in case of a sneak attack,” he reveals with a foxish grin when they all fail to recognize him, “Easier to hide weapons, too.”

There is a boyish charm to him, a glint of humor, and Roy is a little bit blindsided by the realization that the Emperor of Xing is younger than even Ed.

He is flanked by two people, dressed in black and wearing gruesome masks made of porcelain. It's hard to tell their gender, both of them slender and shorter than Ling Yao who is unusually tall for a Xingese man. But the collar of the one on the left has slipped a little, exposing aging skin, while the other has slightly wider hips.

“This is Fu, head of my personal guard, and Lan Fan, my shadow,” Ling Yao introduces, “I trust them with my life and now I will have to trust you as well, so I expect you to report to them.”

They all nod in acknowledgment of that order. Then Ling turns toward Roy.

“General Mustang, I was informed that there would be another State Alchemist joining you. Which one is it?”

“Colonel Edward Elric,” Roy answers, beckoning Ed to step forward, “The Fullmetal Alchemist.”

Edward salutes, still a bit sloppy with how rarely he has done it in his life.

Ling Yao's black eyes gleam.

“I have heard of you during my travels,” he says, “They said you had suddenly dropped off the face of the earth. I assumed you had left the ranks.”

“Your war dragged me back in,” Edward tells him, his customary disrespect for superiors firmly in place.

“I try to think of it as less of a war and more of a necessity,” Ling retorts without missing a beat, “It is my duty to protect my people.”

“At the cost of many.”

“Sometimes, yes.”

“I read a Xingese proverb on a postcard once,” Ed says, “'Water surges only to overflow.' If you take things too far they'll come back to bite you in the ass.”

“There's another saying,” Ling Yao points out, “'Nothing is too deceitful in war.'”

Roy thinks of the children he has burned alive and knows it to be true.

“Do you aim to be deceitful?” Edward asks and then tags on, “Your majesty?”

“Not me,” Ling allows, “But I have many ill-wishers who hope to see me dethroned and, preferably, beheaded. And some of them are not even Drachmans.”

Roy narrows his eyes, “You suspect Amestrians?”

“Surely,” Ling nods easily, as though he were not discussing his possible assassination, “And Cretans and Aerugons. And Xingese.”

Roy's eyebrows rise, “From within your own ranks?”

Next to him, he can feel Ed sent him an incredulous look. He, of course, knows that Roy had taken out King Bradley with his own hands.

“From within my own family,” Ling Yao says and smiles.

Of course. Ling Yao had not fathered an heir yet but he had done away with the tradition of the concubinage, refusing to take mistresses from every single clan as his forefathers had done.

“There are few whom I trust,” he says now, “My half-sister and physician May Chang is one of them. Fu and Lan Fan and a handful of others, mainly of the Yao line. But even some from my own clan resent me for destroying their daughters' chances.”

“Why not return to the old ways then?” Roy challenges. He can't quite tell why but he has a hard time gauging Ling Yao's true objective. Most men, after all, would leap at a chance to select fifty well-bred virgins for their own pleasure.

Ling Yao's smile does not fade, just turns a little self-deprecating.

“I believe in love,” he says and looks at no one in particular.

 

Blackburn speaks Xingese which is useful, though she prefers listening over speaking. She helps Ed in his studies, when he is tearing his hair out over how similar some of the characters look.

Even without her help, he'd surely manage well enough, but then Ling takes it upon himself to tutor Ed as well.

“You'd think he'd have better things to do,” Blenheim mutters in annoyance when Ling is once more leaning over Ed's shoulder to correct his writing, his grip on the paintbrush. Ed writes with his left hand and Ling's thumb brushes over the ridge of his knuckles.

“I think it's quite nice of him,” Dornier says obliviously.

Roy just keeps his eyes carefully lowered so he doesn't have to watch how Ling instructs Ed on pronunciation, too, showing him how to move his tongue. Ed accepts it but like a bristling cat accepts being pet, always seconds away from lashing out.

“Pardon the question, General,” Dornier says, turning toward Roy, “But my mother mentioned you being half-Xingese.”

“But Amestrian born and raised,” Roy says idly, “I only grasp the basics myself.”

Only what little his aunt's girls had taught him on the side, flirtations mostly, and too much naughty vocabulary. Nothing Ed would be interested in.

He tries not to wonder whether Ed has been with anyone else since they ended things between them. Tries not to feel jealous. He never thought that fate would somehow manage to throw them back together, though even now Roy finds himself with Ed not by his side but at the fringes of what he may touch.

You've had your chance, he reminds himself and ignores how much it hurts.

 

For the most part, life in Taiyang is quiet. There is no war here, not actively, and one of Roy's tasks is to keep it so. Another is to make sure the emperor is safe at all times.

Usually, either Lan Fan or Fu as sitting in the shadows anyway, but Roy always delegates a two-men team to accompany Ling wherever he goes. Blackburn and Dornier are on duty this evening while Blenheim has called it an early night as he'll take the graveyard shift along with Ed.

“You should go to bed, too,” Roy tells him, still recalling Ed's teenage years when the boy had always been falling asleep in the most unlikely of places.

Edward, for once, does not complain about Roy being too overbearing. He is sitting crouched on the floor, back pressed against the wall. In his hands, he is holding a photograph. Roy doesn't have to look to know that it shows Alphonse, whether from now or before.

Roy sighs, hesitates shortly, and then sits down next to him. The stone floor is cold underneath him, even through the woolen layers of his uniform. With two fingers, he pulls out a photograph from his breast pocket, stares at it, before blindly shoving it into Ed's direction.

For a long moment, Ed just looks at the picture. It's quite likely that he hasn't seen Maes' face in ten years. Then he looks away.

“I thought you were supposed to keep a picture of someone you can return to,” he says quietly, “Someone who inspires you.”

“He is one of the many reasons that inspire me,” Roy replies and, because he is somewhat morbid, adds, “And who knows, maybe I will join him soon enough.”

Ed's glare, sudden in its intensity, catches him off guard.

“Do not say shit like that!” he growls and due to their proximity Roy cannot help but flinch back. “If you start thinking like that, it's as if you had already given up!”

“I'm not-” Roy tries to protest, but Ed won't let him.

“Yes, you are,” he huffs, “Don't pretend otherwise. I've been there, alright, and once you let it get to you, it festers. You wait a little too long, duck out of the way a little too late, and then you might as well just fall onto your own sword.”

Roy lets out a dry laugh, “I do prefer the more direct approach.”

Wrong answer. He shouldn't have said that, not when there is so much truth laced through the words. Abruptly, he recalls how, a long time ago, he had told Edward about putting a gun to his head in the wake of the Rockbells' death.

“That's not funny,” Ed says tersely.

“It wasn't meant to be,” Roy returns, pushes himself up from the floor. He holds out a hand, “Can I have the picture back?”

“No,” Ed says and neatly slips the photographs of Alphonse and Maes into his own jacket, “If you want to see Hughes again, you have to survive this war.”

At that, Roy cannot help but snort, not overly surprised, “You drive a hard bargain, Fullmetal.”

But Edward's canines just gleam up at him in a wolfish grin, “I learned from the best, Colonel.”

It feels too much like a fond memory and Roy does not bother to correct him on the rank.

 

When Ling is not focusing on planning the war, he is busy flirting with Ed.

Their interactions are peppered with quick bickering, though Ling always backs off when he feels Ed's fuse grow too short. More often than not they stand a little too close together, bending over a map or talking quietly. Sometimes, Ling's hand comes up to rest on Ed's shoulder. Sometimes Ed doesn't pull away.

Roy watches and doesn't say anything. Fraternization is prohibited but it's not like Ling is part of the Amestrian army. It's not like anyone can order the Emperor of Xing around. It's not like Roy has any right to be jealous.

On one of those occasions, Roy finds himself standing next to Lan Fan who, for once, is not wearing the intimidating grimace of her demon mask, her porcelain face instead composed in something that is too carefully neutral to not rouse his attention.

Roy allows himself to follow her gaze, finding it fixed on the Emperor. Not unusual, considering her duties as his guard, but there is something else there and reading people is too much of a bad habit for Roy not to stick his nose in it.

“You want him,” he murmurs, not bothering to specify what he is talking about.

Lan Fan doesn't flinch, doesn't still for she is so still already, and for a moment Roy thinks she will not react at all.

“Do not use me as a mirror,” is what she finally says. But then again, Roy probably had it coming.

 

Little over a month later, when their life in Taiyang is continuing in its tentative routine, a letter from General Armstrong reaches Roy, informing him about the situation at the front lines. It's more dire than anticipated, the Drachman Tsar putting all of his efforts into trying to breach the borders. Drachma is vast and vicious and there are many young boys who are deemed expendable. Barely a day passes without some sort of clash, and the troops at Briggs are holding on by the skin of their teeth.

In a side note, uncharacteristically personal of her, Olivier mentions that Colonel Alex Louis Armstrong lost his life in a valiant effort to protect his platoon, found too late and died too early, buried under an unforgiving avalanche.

Ed had been waiting for him to finish reading the letter but, when Roy's eyes cannot tear themselves away from the sharply inked letters, he only has to take one look at his face. Ed's lips purse.

“Who is it?” he asks, almost resigned.

“Alex,” Roy says.

He neatly folds the letter and puts it into his breast pocket before his fingers can begin shaking.

Ed kicks a wooden pillar so hard it shatters under his automail foot. He claps his hands and transmutes it whole immediately, grotesque though it may be, but it still feels like the roof is coming down around them.

Roy drinks himself into a stupor that night, Alex's voice and Maes' laughter in his ears, and when he falls asleep it is all replaced by screams in the desert.

  
The rainy season is upon them, Taiyang half-drowned in the torrents, and accordingly everyone is a little one edge. Not only does the weather put a literal dampener on everything, but it also makes warding more difficult. Looking out of the windows, one can barely see ten meters far, and the noise is considerable as well.

When, late one evening, a fire breaks out in the palace, Roy wastes no time to hurry down the corridor in the emperor's wing where their whole party has been stationed for convenience.

“Your Majesty,” he calls out, knocking against the door, and, fearing for the worst when there is no immediate answer, just slides it open.

The sight that greets him is so unexpected that his mind first struggles to make sense of it, listlessly putting the different puzzle pieces together to finally find the only combination possible, no matter how outrageous it seems.

Ed and Ling are on the bed, Ed sprawled on his back, Ling half on top of him, not kissing, not in tight embrace, not fucking, but maybe in the lead-up to fucking, maybe in the aftermath, maybe both, but naked, too naked to leave any room for doubt, and Roy's brain does something very complicated where it changes place with his heart.

“General,” Ling drawls, shamelessly sitting up.

Roy's mouth opens and closes and opens again.

“There is a fire,” he manages to say, “We suspect a breach in security and I wanted to ascertain your whereabouts.”

“Well, I am here,” Ling spreads his hands in a careless gesture, “Can you deal with matters on your own?”

“I would request Fullmetal's assistance,” Roy says, “If it isn't too much of an inconvenience.”

“Shit shit shit,” Ed curses. He has already rolled off the bed and is struggling into his uniform while Roy averts his eyes.

“Of course,” Ling allows, pulling his own inky black hair into its customary ponytail. “May I expect your return?” he asks Ed and, with some vindication, Roy notes how Fullmetal does not even answer, instead hurrying to follow him out of the room.

In an attempt to regain some of his composure, Roy seeks to even the score, even though none of this was ever a game.

“Really, Fullmetal,” he murmurs, sending a furtive glance at Ed when he has caught up. Their footsteps are loud in the hallway. “Fucking your superior? It seems to be a habit of yours.”

“We are not talking about this,” Ed growls, violently doing up the rest of his buttons, and Roy knows he should respect that but he has always enjoyed playing with fire.

“You deserve better, you know,” he says and of course it is not received well.

Ed bares his teeth, fists clenched at his sides.

“What would you know about what I deserve?” he hisses, “What would you know about _better_?”

“I'm not trying to paint a prettier picture of our past,” Roy elaborates because, for once, the flames have licked his fingers and it stings, “On the contrary. I did you wrong, in many ways. I only hope you won't allow someone else to make the same mistakes.”

Ed looks away. Unexpectedly, the answer seems to have calmed him down. Perhaps he has matured after all.

“He's nice enough,” he says and it's clear that he must be talking about Ling, “Considering.”

Roy cocks an eyebrow, “Considering what?”

“Considering he's got a nation to rule and a war to lead.”

“There are worse ways of coping,” Roy agrees. When he had been much younger, he had been known to try and fuck his worries away as well. At some point, alcohol just started to work a little better.

The fire in the palace, it turns out, was an accident caused by a kitchen hand. The boy is in hysterics, fearing severe punishment. Roy tells him not to worry about it, having Ed and Blackburn translate to the best of their abilities, but it still takes a while to calm the boy and everyone else down.

Once the flames have been put out and the premises cleared, Roy finds himself standing among ashes and smoke, pressing a sleeve to his mouth as not to inhale too deeply. The smell is not the same as it was in Ishval, charred wood instead of burned flesh, but it's enough to make him queasy. Maybe even Ed can tell.

“Hey,” he says, nudging him when everyone else has left, “You alright?”

He is holding a lantern in his other hand and their morphed shadows dance on the wall.

Roy shudders out a breath, gives an unsteady nod.

“I will be,” he says, thinking of the whiskey he has kept for occasions such as these because the rice wine doesn't do it for him. He shouldn't, he knows, he has told himself too many times already, and this time nothing really happened. There wasn't even a real threat, no one was injured, but everything just feels like too much.

Ed gives him a long look.

“Hawkeye told me to keep an eye on you,” he says as though to justify his own worry. Roy stills.

“She always knew how to think ahead,” he allows, before chancing a glance at Ed, “Won't Ling be expecting you?”

Ed shakes his head. “I'm on duty,” he says and it has little to do with him being a soldier.

 

The next time Roy crosses paths with Lan Fan, he cannot help but address the issue.

“You could have warned me,” he tells her. There is no doubt in his mind that, the night of the fire, she had been sitting somewhere in the dark and let him barge right into Ling's room, even though she knew exactly what was going on inside.

To her credit, she does not even dispute the matter.

“I could have,” she admits. Her eyes are dark like deep ponds, many things unknown in their depths. Roy looks a little closer and still cannot find the answer.

“Was it for you or for me?” he asks outright, but her face is still a mask.

“It was for the best,” she says cryptically and then moves to step past him.

 

In November, Roy, who had memorized all of his subordinates' files, remembers that it is Edward's twenty-sixth birthday. He doesn't know what to gift him, whether to give him anything at all. As a boy, Ed had liked books and food in equal measure, but somehow it doesn't seem to fit the setting. But there is something else that Ed will want, something only Roy can offer.

“I am to send my official status report back to Central later this week,” Roy tells him and Ed gives him a wry look.

“Yeah. So?”

“We are not supposed to use it for private correspondence,” Roy explains, keeping his hands folded behind his back and bouncing on his heels, “But Hawkeye has always been lenient with me. And I'm sure she'd be more than happy to have your letter delivered to Riesembol.”

Ed stares at him and Roy waits until the words truly compute. When they do, Ed does not tear up but it's a close thing.

“Thank you,” he says. For maybe the first time in the entirety of their acquaintance, the words are spoken with utter sincerity, “Thank you.”

And Roy could say _Think nothing of it_ and reduce the meaning of the gesture. He could say _It's the least I can do_ and remind them of the futility of their situation.

“You're welcome,” he says instead and means it. Edward, when he smiles at him, seems to know it, too.

 

It's early 1926, the beginning of the new Xingese year, and Amestris has been part of this war for just about ten months.

No one had fooled themselves into believing that this would be a quick war, not when there was Drachma involved, but with each passing week things seem to look more dreary. Spring would be welcome now, but not even the weather seems to be picking up, gray and graceless as before.

One little thing, however, manages to lift Roy's mood.

Ed's brief affair with Ling has come to an end, apparently already a while ago, and neither of them is crying over it. Roy cannot know for certain but it seems to have been Ed's decision and Ling, in turn, respects it.

They act more professional around each other than they ever have before, but there is no lingering awkwardness, Ling's proud peacocking replaced by deep-rooted regard for Ed, Ed able to laugh at his jokes without also looking like he wants to bail from the room and, just for good measure, the nation of Xing in general.

The rest of the team seems to welcome it, too. Blenheim had always seemed rather annoyed by the mating rituals of those around him whereas Blackburn had taken care to keep her own relationship with one of the royal handmaidens from ever interfering with their work. Dornier, in contrast, is too caught up in eager youthful professionalism to even consider the possibility of taking a lover, especially not when they could be using her to gather crucial intel about the emperor's security detail.

So it is only Roy who struggles with this new development, but not for reasons anyone might suspect.

Jealousy, when Ed was still with Ling, had been an easy enough distraction to shake off. Jealousy was mundane and immature. Jealousy was volatile and violent. Jealousy had no place in the head of someone as controlled as the Flame Alchemist.

But oh, how his heart stumbles each time he thinks of the possibility of touching Edward.

You've had your chance, he thinks again and again, twisting the prayer around his rib cage like barbed wire.

“Hey,” Ed says. He's bent over the wash basin in the bathroom the Amestrian party shares, a towel slung around his hips, but otherwise naked. There are droplets of water on his face. The short hair at the nape of his neck has been freshly shorn, dark with wetness. Roy aches with how easy it would be to just reach out and-

“Fullmetal,” he says with half a mind to just leave again. He cannot possibly undress and wash up in front of Edward now, not when the only thing maintaining his dignity is the blue of his uniform.

Ed swallows, purses his lips. His stare is stagnant, turned off to the side.

“Can you... just call me Edward again?” he asks, an oddly despondent tone in the words, “Please?”

“It would be unprofessional of me to-”

“Cut that crap,” Ed hisses, though he doesn't seem as incensed as he could be, “We've never been professional before.”

“Perhaps we should have been,” Roy says, rubbing his wrist with his other hand, “I let you get away with too much when you were younger, and then-”

“Then what?” Edward demands. Suddenly he is standing almost too close, almost too naked. “Then _what_ , Mustang?”

There are too many answers for that. Roy picks the easiest one.

“Then I 'fucked everything up', I believe the vernacular goes,” he says and neatly sidesteps Edward to get at the basin.

“I never took you for a coward,” Ed accuses and there is something about that, something-

But there are medals pinned to Roy's chest, a handgun against his hip, white gloves in his pocket.

“This is the bravest thing I've ever done,” he claims and dips his hands into the lukewarm water.

“It really fucking isn't,” Edward says and leaves.

 

Eventually, something's got to give and then, one evening, Fu calls them in because of suspicions regarding a security breach.

“We have reason to believe the capital has been infiltrated by Drachman spies,” he relays what little he knows as they gather around the table in the strategy room, “Their objective in uncertain, but we must assume that they are looking to harm the emperor or take him hostage.”

Ling, to his commend, with his pokerface more polished that even Roy's, does not even blink at the words. What must it be like to live your life with the knowledge that hundreds, perhaps thousands of people wanted you dead?

Roy glances over at Lan Fan who, as always, is standing just behind Ling's right shoulder. For the first time it occurs to him that it is not just light that creates shadow, but that you need something solid, something tangible as well. Remove it and the shadow disappears.

Perhaps, Roy thinks, duly lowering his eyes back to the map of the palace under his fingertips, he and Ling Yao have more in common than he had thought.

“We ought to increase your personal security guard, your Majesty,” Roy decides. Ling had never once complained about constantly being followed around, though Fu had hinted at the fact that, as a youngster, Ling had had a tendency of slipping away unnoticed and mingling with the people. But the emperor, older by ten years and one war, had matured enough to know that that was no longer an option. He did not hide himself away, would probably have preferred to fight at the front lines himself, but he also understood that he was to play a different role.

“I also want you to take extreme care with whatever you come into contact with,” Roy adds, “Food, drink, your bathwater, your clothes, the oil lamps in your chambers. Literally anything could be poisoned. Do not take any risks.”

Roy does not like this. He is good at scheming, sitting in the shadows and pulling the strings just so, but he does not like having to wait for the other party to make the first move. Right now, they were sitting ducks and there was little they could do.

“Fullmetal,” he says, straightening up. Ed doesn't quite stand to attention but he tenses nevertheless. The medals on his chest jitter mockingly. He had always been the highest-ranked of Roy's subordinates but it still feels odd to treat him as his most experienced, his most loyal, his most trusted.

“Take Blenheim and Dornier and go secure the perimeters,” Roy orders him despite the bitter taste it leaves on his tongue, “Keep an eye out for any suspicious activities.”

The guards had already been instructed to be even more on alert than usual, though Roy doubts that anyone would just storm the palace outright. Amestrians often liked to think of the Drachmas as simple-minded but Tsar Andrej did not just inherit his father's tenacity. They were a thrifty, hardy people and not above subterfuge. So far, they had concentrated their efforts at the front lines, hoping to breach the borders, but it had only been a matter of time till they grew impatient. People needed to know that their sons were not just dying in vain; they needed to see some actual results. And perhaps this was not a game of chess where the defeat of the king would win the game, Roy thinks with his thoughts on Ling, but it came a close second.

“Yes, sir,” Ed says and it doesn't even sound all that sarcastic. He, too, must understand the direness of the situation.

“Lan Fan,” Ling says in that moment, “You know the palace better than anyone else. Accompany them.”

He does not glance over his shoulder to look at her, his eyes idly tracing the map, but the corners of his mouth are tense. And Lan Fan herself does not flinch, does not object, just hesitates for barely a moment.

“Yes, your Highness,” she says and slips her demon mask back on.

“If you run into any sort of trouble,” Roy continues, “Do not just let yourself be engaged in a fight. The most important thing is to make sure the emperor is safe. Whatever happens, dispatch a messenger to inform us of any new developments. Until then, dismissed.”

“Yes, sir!”

They all salute and march out of the room, Edward in the lead. He'd never be a true soldier, but he had always had that gleam of honest gold in him that inspired others to follow. Roy would gouge out his own eye to have something of equal worth.

“With your permission, your Majesty,” Fu says, “I will go instruct General Baozhai and her troops.”

“Yes,” Ling agrees with a vague nod, “Do that.”

Fu bows and makes to turn away, but then stills when Ling speaks again.

“And Fu?” he says, the old man's name sounding strangely soft on his tongue. Not for the first time, Roy has to remind himself that Ling was not raised by his father the emperor but by the elders of the Yao clan. “Take care.”

“Of course,” Fu says, just as fond, and then he is gone.

Ling's hand trembles slightly as he wipes a palm across his face, the dark shadows under his eyes.

“War would be so easy,” he says, “If there was only one's own death to fear.”

Roy doesn't say anything and neither does Blackburn who is the only one who remains with them. They are all too familiar with loss.

Together, they leave the strategy room, Roy up front and Blackburn taking up the rear, Ling shielded between them. It still changes little when they are attacked right in that moment.

The guards. The fucking guards posted by the door, all four of them, all Xingese and armed to the teeth, and Roy dodges the jian sword by sheer instinct, stumbles out of the way, realizes that he has exposed Ling by doing so.

He is not even wearing his gloves, he realizes, curses himself for his negligence as he fumbles them from his pocket.

Luckily, Blackburn reacts much faster. With the strength of a lioness, she just grabs Ling by the back of his collar and forcefully pulls him behind herself and out of harm's way. When one of the guards comes right after them, she decks him right in the face, picks him up and throws him at one of the others.

By then, Roy and Ling have sorted themselves out as well. Ling Yao is gripping his dao and letting it swing through the air in a smooth arc while Roy just snaps his fingers to burn their attackers' hands, making them drop their weapons.

“Don't kill them!” Ling warns, though Roy hadn't planned to. They needed them for questioning, after all.

“What is this?” Blackburn growls darkly and kicks one of the fallen swords out of the way, snatching one of the man and lifting him up to her eye level, “Are you not Xingese soldiers?”

“Traitors,” Ling tosses out easily, “Few are loyal to me and even those can be bought with gold and promises. I doubt they are acting independently, though. The Drachmans must be collaborating with some of the other clans.”

He runs a critical eye over the colorful emblems on their palace armor which announces their familial associations. “The Song and the Yi clan,” he notes dispassionately, “If they are not disguising themselves, that is. Curious. I would have expected something like this from the Shen or the Liang.”

The guard currently in Blackburn's hands hisses something in Xingese. Ling looks unimpressed and Blackburn just gives the man a good shaking to shut him up. Roy looks around uneasily. Like this, the attack might just seem like a poorly planned spurt-of-the-moment thing. But the clamor of their fighting should have alerted other guards to come to their rescue, yet the corridor is deserted. Either other guards and servants were in on the scheme and supporting it in one way or another – or everyone else was occupied with their own fights.

This wasn't a simple ambush. This was mutiny.

“Your Majesty,” Roy says, his pulse and thoughts racing, “We need to join the others.”

It was the exact opposite of what they had agreed on before, namely the protection of the emperor at all costs. But if the palace was seized by the opposition, then he would be taken hostage anyway. And Roy could try to burn their way free, but much of the palace was made of wood and paper. He'd be more likely to make them all die in an inferno than save them.

Still, his alchemy along with Ling's own fighting prowess might well be what would turn the odds into their favor. They couldn't hide away now, not if their comrades were possibly fighting for their lives.

Ling Yao, fortunately, does not even hesitate.

“Very well,” he says, closing his eyes, a crease of concentration forming between his brows. “I can feel Lan Fan's aura. Edward's, too. They are coming closer.”

So they must know that something was off.

“We should meet them halfway-,” Roy proposes but cuts off when he sees one of the guards pushing himself up from the floor.

“Stay down,” Roy tells him, lifting his gloved hand in warning.

But the man, little more than a boy underneath his helmet and bulky armor, does not obey, not even when Blackburn repeats the order in Xingese.

“My name is Song Ah,” he says instead, his voice broken and furious, “And I will not let you watch our nation go up in flames.”

“Song Ah,” Ling says, “Son of Song Guang. Your father is fighting at the front.”

“My father and my uncle and my sister and my cousins,” Song Ah corrects, “All of them fighting for your vanity and your spite.”

“I did not simply inherit my father's crown but his mistakes, too,” Ling says, “I did not disturb the ocean, I just tried to brave its waves.”

“You aggravated Drachma by allying with Amestris!”

“Drachma was already aggravated,” Ling points out, “I wanted to establish a truce, with Amestris acting as a mediator. But Führer Hakuro stalled for too long and then Führer Messerschmitt refused to sign any sort of peace treaty with the Tsar. Eventually, I had to cut my losses. With or without Amestris on my side, there would have been a war.”

Unbidden, Roy remembers his unpleasant encounter with Olivier Armstrong. Armstrong who had known that Messerschmitt was ill-suited for the job, who openly admitted that she would have preferred to have Mustang as Führer President. Armstrong who was now mourning her little brother and still sending her troops to rail against the Drachman border.

Roy should not feel guilty, he should not feel responsible for all that had happened. And yet...

“But will there be a war without you?” Song Ah asks and pulls his helmet from his head.

Roy barely sees a glimpse of the circle emblazoned on the inside but, the same moment he snaps his fingers, Song Ah is already activating the array.

There is no pain, no loud noise. No fire either. Just the snap Roy's fingers, weak and wet.

Water alchemy, he thinks stupefied, moisture sinking into his clothes. Or perhaps alkahestry, though he never quite managed to figure out the distinctions.

There wasn't any sort of rain falling down on them, but all three of them are still drenched from head to toe. His gloves, both the ones he is wearing and his spares, are a hopeless case, of course, but he reaches for his firearm strapped to his side, only to see that Blackburn is already checking her own pistol.

“The gun power is damp,” she confirms what Roy had already feared, but then she just uses the butt of the gun to knock out the soldier in front of her.

With both Roy's alchemy and their guns out of commission, they would have to rely on their fists and other weapons. So Ling skillfully hefts his dao and Blackburn flexes her muscles, but Roy has never been overly gifted when it came to close combat. Perhaps Hawkeye had been right when she said he relied too much on his gloves.

Making their way through the palace like this would be too risky, especially since they didn't know what to expect.

“Let's wait for the others,” Roy reconsiders. Ed's alchemy would not be inhibited by water and he would also be able to contain whoever stood in their way.

Just then, there are heavy steps coming down the hallway and Roy lifts his head in expectations.

“It's not them,” Ling warns, his eyes sharp, just when the clatter of armor becomes audible as well.

It a terrible long moment, not knowing whether these men will be on their side or not. Not knowing whether this will be the end.

Roy thinks of Maes' picture in Edward's breast pocket. Of Elysia and Alphonse for whose future he is indirectly fighting every day. He thinks of Amestris and her people, a nation torn apart by decades of war and strife. He thinks of his dream of uniting her the way she deserves. He thinks of his failure.

“I'll be taking this,” he says gallantly, bending down to pick up one of the fallen blades. It feels awkward in his hands, too long and unwieldy. He has never handled a sword before, but there is still a scar on the palm and back of his hand where King Bradley had pierced him through. Back then, Roy had thought that he would surely die, but he had made it out alive. Perhaps he would be lucky again.

From the corner of his eyes, he sees Song Ah lifting his helmet again, his fingertips poised above the array. Blackburn jerks forward, reaching out a hand to stop him because there is no telling what he can do.

“Don't you fucking dare, kid-” she warns but then she is already blasted backward and into the wall as a concentrated gush of water hits her straight in the chest. So the boy did know how to use his alchemy in combat which made things even more unpredictable.

Yet Ling is just as unpredictable. Within the blink of an eye, he has vaulted across the distance so he stands behind Song Ah, already wrestling him down to tie his wrists together with the sash from his own armor. The boy bites out a curse but his helmet clatters to the floor, useless.

“How many of you are there?” Ling demands, bearing down hard enough to make Song Ah groan in pain. “How many?!”

“Enough to take you down!” Song Ah hisses and then all hell breaks lose.

A hoard of guards barrels down the hallway from one end, while Ed's team comes in from the other.

Roy gapes at them, relieved laughter stuck in his throat, but then one of Blenheim's knives soars right past him and embeds itself in the throat of a man who had been about the attack Ling from behind. The sizzle of alchemy, a shudder, and then both ends of the hallway close off at Edward's behest.

“Who is on our side?” Edward demands, furiously looking around, taking in the crowd of people.

“None of the guards!” Roy yells back. Some of them might be, but right now it would best to shoot first and ask questions later. Ling's life was most important.

Lan Fan is already by his side, pulling him away from Song Ah and the midst of the fray where everyone is clashing against each other. Fu is there, too, mysteriously appeared from the shadows like his granddaughter herself likes to do, while Dornier is helping Blackburn to her feet and handing her a new gun.

“What happened?” Ed asks, sidling up with Roy and taking in his soaked state.

“Water alchemy,” Roy explains curtly, “Several of the clans seems to holding a grudge against Yao.”

“Not all of them,” Ed knows, “Outside is an absolute chaos. Not just the palace, though. People are fighting in the streets, everyone turning against each other.”

All of a sudden, Roy finds himself grateful for the fact that he is in here and not forced to subdue civilians once more. Whether Xingese or Ishvalan, people surely all burned the same.

“The fuck are you doing?” Ed snaps a second later when he sees Roy poking his sword into the unprotected armpit of one of the guards, “Hawkeye was right, you are fucking hopeless without a nanny!”

Roy opens his mouth to protest, but then Ed is already reaching inside of his own uniform jacket, pulling out a pair of pristine white gloves and blindly shoving them at him.

And Roy doesn't know whether Hawkeye cornered Ed and forced the gloves on him, doesn't know whether Edward came to ask her instead. All that counts is that the gloves are dry and that they fit perfectly when Roy wrangles them onto his hands.

So they fight. It's difficult and dangerous because it seems some of the guards are on their side after all, but it's nearly impossible to tell them apart. Roy's awareness narrows down to flashes of action - Blenheim grunting in pain, Dornier efficiently reloading her rifle, Fu engaging three guards at once in hand to hand combat. The traitors have numbers on their sides, but Ling's supporters are more skilled.

And there is a nagging thought at the back of Roy's head telling him that he could kill them all, just like that, but he can't he can't he can't, not again, not like this, never again like this and-

Next to him, Ed is crouching down, about to slam his hands down and transmute something out of the floor. Just a little way ahead of them, ridiculously close even, a fallen guard grabs Anais Dornier's ankle making her stumble and falter, and then she is already being run through by someone's spear.

She doesn't cry out, really, just gives a little wheeze, her eyes widening. Her finger squeezes the trigger of her rifle, shooting her attacker right through the armor and hitting him in the sternum. Roy knows enough about battle to pinpoint which wounds are fatal and, in this case, both of them are.

Edward, however, not quite so cold-blooded yet, not so accepting, yells and makes a distracted move towards Dornier. That's all the enemy needs.

From his periphery, Roy sees movement. And he doesn't think, doesn't pause, just throws himself in between, fire flashing before the sound of his fingers snapping has even reached his ears.

Hot red fills his vision and then sears across his face. For a stupefied moment, he thinks he must have miscalculated and burned himself, but then the pain begins to register, the warm slide of blood down his cheek. Then he screams, falls to his knees, pressing his palms over his eye, fluids seeping between his fingers.

He is vaguely aware of the yelling and fighting continuing around him, people dying, his name, maybe, but eventually he just passes out, mad with pain.

 

When he wakes up again, the world is small.

No, not small. Narrow. Narrower than what he is used to. He has to turn his head to look about the room and, when the bandages around his head brush against the pillow, he remembers.

He closes his eye but it feels too final, so he quickly opens it again, forces himself to look around some more.

He is in what must be a healer's room, high shelves filled with books and vials lining the walls, the late afternoon sun sprawling through the window. Sitting by his bedside, sunken in on himself on a chair and dozing, is Ed.

Roy licks his dry lips and struggles to sit up in bed. His entire body aches, his head in particular, but there is no actual pain. The healer had done their job well.

His movement must have roused Edward because his eyes snap open and he sits up straight, his battle-honed instincts having returned during the weeks of war. His gaze immediately lands on Roy.

“You're awake,” he says unnecessarily and then, “Shit, shit, do you want something to drink?” And a moment later, he is already reaching for a cup and lifting it to Roy's lips. Roy, even though he deems himself capable of drinking on his own, lets him help, lets him sit down on the edge of the mattress.

“I only got water for now, I don't know whether you're allowed to eat yet,” Ed rambles, setting the cup back down once it's empty, “I should probably call May Chang, she left a while ago, but shit, I fell asleep, I don't know how long it's been and-”

“Edward,” Roy says wearily and finally Ed looks at him. Or rather, not quite. His gaze skirts from his face and falls to his shoulder.

“How is everyone?” Roy asks and Ed's lips thin.

“Anais is dead,” he says what they both know Roy already knew, but it bears repeating, and Roy spares a thought for Adelaide Dornier who had now lost her only daughter when she had already lost her husband in the Ishvalan Rebellion.

“Blackburn took a bit of a beating, but she's alright, really,” Ed continues, “Blenheim got stabbed a couple of times, with his own knife, too. They said he'll pull through.”

“What about the emperor?”

“Right as rain,” Ed huffs, “Like Lan Fan would ever let anyone at him.” Then he grows somber again, “Fu didn't make it, though.”

“And you?” Roy wants to know.

Ed just shrugs. “You know me,” he says, “Can't keep me down.”

“Bad weeds grow tall,” Roy agrees and, before Ed can complain about that, he asks, “And me?”

Ed, his mouth already open in retaliation, looses his breath. His fingers clench in the fabric of his pants and it's only now that Roy notices he's not wearing blue. He had grown so used to seeing Ed is his uniform that this moment seems slightly unreal, slightly off-kilter.

“May Chang did her best,” Ed says haltingly, “But she couldn't save your eye.”

This is another thing Roy had already known, but the confirmation hurts. He gives a curt nod, not acceptance, just acknowledgment. “Anything else?”

“There'll be... extensive scarring,” Ed adds, “But she thinks you'll still be handsome.”

He doesn't say whether he thinks the same.

There's a promising young woman dead at the hands of traitors, Roy reminds himself. Dozens of people lose their lives in this war every day. Ed himself had lost two limbs and still waltzed his way through the world. Roy should not be lamenting his vanity.

“Why'd you do it?” Ed asks and Roy glances up.

“Do what?”

“Protect me.”

“You would have been too slow to do it yourself.”

“You know what I mean.”

“You have Alphonse to consider.”

“Doesn't mean you should just throw your life away.”

Ah. So this is just another version of the conversation they had months ago. Did he really think that Roy was just trying to recklessly forfeit his life when it was never something so simple as that?

“Perhaps,” Roy allows, “But you have someone to return to. I don't. But please, feel free to add insult to injury.”

For a moment, they sit in silence, each contemplating how to rebuild their walls. Wondering whether they should do it at all. Edward, for once, decides to build a bridge.

“My bastard of a C.O. never asked me to stay,” he says, “But at least he's still alive.”

“Huh?” Roy says, blinking slowly.

“Could've been worse,” Ed reminds him, “The game, remember? So.”

Yes, Roy does remember. He remembers many missed chances, moments passing by instead of being held on to. He remembers regret and resentment and hoping for change. And change was a big word, a scary one, but it became less so once you decided to shape it with your own hands.

“I lost an eye,” Roy says now, “But at least I can see what's right in front of me.”

Ed looks up. It is the first time he has properly looked at Roy since he woke up, the first time since the war started, the first time since they had sat on the bed in Gracia's guestroom ten years ago and Roy failed to find the right words.

They gravitate toward each other until their foreheads are touching and Ed's left hand comes up to cup his cheek. Roy doesn't think anyone has ever touched him quite so tenderly. He didn't think anyone ever would.

“We wasted so much _time_ ,” he breathes, helpless, but Ed just shakes his head.

“No, no,” he says, his lips not quite on Roy's, “We have so much time ahead of us.”

And maybe he is right. Because the war is not over, not yet, but then again, Roy has lived through worse.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically, the moral of this story is that, if Roy and Ed don't get married, there will be a war and people die.  
> And I mean, hey, you thought SCST was slowburn, but here it took them ten years to get together. If that ain't slow I don't know what is.
> 
> There are three different ways in which I could continue now:  
> a) a fluffy oneshot set back right after SCST because I have a craving for baby!Al and early relationship RoyEd  
> b) an angsty oneshot set in the canon Second Chances 'verse or  
> c) the final piece for this series with which I will have to say goodbye.
> 
> Please let me know what you would like to see and what you thought of this conclusion! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on dawnstruck.tumblr.com!


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